Chapter 1: The beginning of the end
Chapter Text
I know the exact moment it begins.
It’s not the argument itself — though there’s plenty of yelling, slamming, and that dramatic silence my mother’s mastered after years of weaponizing dinner parties. No, it starts just before that. Right when I hear my father’s voice from the kitchen say, “We’ve made our decision.”
My stomach drops, slow and heavy, like cold water in my lungs.
Decision. That word should be banned in this house.
“You made your decision,” I correct, leaning against the doorframe like I’m in control of anything. “Don’t put that on me.”
They’re both there.
My mom with her crisp white blouse and her lips tight as a drawstring bag.
My dad’s still in his work shirt from the restaurant, the sleeves rolled up, a faint trace of smoke and spice clinging to the fabric.
They don’t match — never did — but somehow they’re always a team when it comes to ruining my life.
“You’ll start at Kildare Academy next week,” my mom says flatly. “It’s not a discussion.”
Of course it’s not.
That’s how it works around here — everything’s either tradition or emergency. Either you’re following the legacy of what you’re supposed to be , or you’re screwing up so badly they have no choice but to step in and fix you.
And I guess I’ve finally done enough screwing up.
There’s something suffocating about being the only child of a couple that should’ve never happened.
My mom — full-blown Kook royalty, debutante balls and champagne flutes and summers in Montauk.
My dad — a Pogue who got her pregnant at nineteen and married her under fluorescent courthouse lights.
The scandal was legendary. The disappointment, even more.
Her parents cut her off that week.
No trust fund. No sympathy. No legacy.
She chose the boy from the boatyard and the baby with no name yet — me — over their reputation. For a while, they didn’t speak. And when they did, it was only to say she’d ruined everything.
But then I was born.
Apparently, I had my grandfather’s eyes. His temper too.
And just like that, the door cracked open again.
They tried, after that — my grandparents.
Not for her. For me.
Offers wrapped in good intentions: a college fund, a private school scholarship, even a second home just for “when she’s older.”
All declined.
Mom said no, every single time.
She didn’t want strings attached. Didn’t want to owe them anything — not even kindness. Especially not kindness.
She built a life on her own terms and didn’t want their hands anywhere near it. Not even if it meant Kiara Carrera would have to figure things out the hard way.
My grandparents love me, I know that.
In their own polished way, they always have.
But Mom keeps them at a distance — and I’ve grown up on the edge of that choice.
And even now, when she brushes my hair behind my ears and says, “Sit straight, baby, don’t slouch,”
when she lectures me about grit and grace in the same breath —
it’s not her mother’s voice I hear.
It’s hers.
I didn’t start out in designer uniforms or air-conditioned hallways that smelled like money.
Not because we couldn’t afford it — not forever, at least —
but because in those early years, my parents were still rebuilding.
Reassembling a life from mismatched pieces.
A Kook mother who walked away from her legacy,
and a Pogue father who’d once been proud of his calloused hands.
They chose each other — and for a while, that meant starting from scratch.
So I went to school with the Pogues.
I belonged. Without trying.
By the time I was ten, things had shifted.
The Wreck — the restaurant — was thriving.
Anna was back in the club, wearing linen and pearls.
We had a house in Figure Eight, with hedges trimmed into submission and a pool we barely used.
We were Kooks. Officially.
And my grandparents — the ones from Washington D.C. with their weekend estates and cashmere pity —
they started sending gifts.
For me.
They said it was about giving me “every opportunity.”
Memberships. Donations. Invitations to places with chandeliers in the bathrooms.
Things that glittered, even when I tried to ignore the shine.
There was a fight once.
I don’t remember all the words, just the thunder of them.
Anna yelling into the kitchen phone, pacing barefoot across the tiles,
saying something like, “She’s not transferring to a Kook academy. She’s fine where she is.”
I wasn’t supposed to hear it, but I did.
And the next day, she asked — casually, like it hadn’t kept her up all night —
whether I’d want to change schools.
But by then, I’d already memorized every hallway of my world.
I knew where Pope kept his extra pens.
I knew the crack in the sidewalk where JJ used to trip me on purpose.
Those boys were my boys.
They were home.
And even at twelve, I knew better than to give that up for shinier floors.
My dad backed me. He always did, when it came to things like that.
Said it would be cruel to rip me away, to make me start over in a place where everyone wore matching shoes.
So I stayed. Through every backhanded comment from a family friend about “why she’s still in that school.”
But as I got older —
as my lies got sharper,
as the weed started showing up in the lining of my backpack,
as the missing hours grew longer and the stories thinner —
it stopped being charming.
Suddenly, I wasn’t a spirited girl with her own path.
I was being corrupted.
Dragged down by the kids who weren’t like us.
The Pogues.
In OBX, you’re either a Pogue —
working class, wild and loud,
or a Kook —
rich, polished, legacy-bound, country-club proper.
There’s no middle ground.
And I was somewhere in between,
a glitch in the system.
Private blood in a public school body.
Eventually, they made their decision. Pressed uniforms. Dead eyes.
And me? fifteen. And furious.
They won’t say it out loud, but I know what they’re thinking.
We gave you every opportunity. We gave you everything.
And maybe they did.
But what if I never wanted it?
What if I’m still figuring it out?
“Kildare Academy,” I repeat under my breath, like it’s some kind of sentence. “The last step before I’m fully assimilated.”
My mother doesn’t even flinch.
She picks up her wine glass. The condensation’s perfect — not a single smudge. She doesn’t drink it. Just holds it like a reminder of the life I’m expected to inherit.
“We’re not asking you,” she says.
And I don’t answer.
Not because I agree.
But because I’m too tired to fight when I already know I’m losing.
I drop my bike at The Chateau like always, like it belongs more here than I do back in Figure Eight.
They’re already out there, spread like lazy kings with no kingdom to claim. I take a breath before I step up. My chest still burns from the ride and from everything I left unsaid at home.
“Look who finally made it out of Versailles,” JJ calls when he sees me, his voice curling with mischief. “Did the guards open the gates or did you sneak past the butlers?”
JJ Maybank.
JJ is the kind of guy who talks like he's invincible because it’s safer than admitting he’s not. His laughter is loud, obnoxious, addictive—but it’s armor. His dad is a drunk who hits when he’s mad and drinks more when he’s not. JJ’s arms carry bruises he never talks about, and eyes that shine too hard, like if he lets them soften for even a second, everything will spill out. His mom left when he was just a kid, ran off without a note, without a reason. Sometimes I wonder if JJ’s jokes are him trying to fill up all the empty spaces she left behind.
“You're late,” John B says, tossing me a warm beer like it’s tradition.
John Booker Routledge.
John B lives in a world that always feels like it's about to cave in, but he never lets it show. His mom died when he was little. His dad is a mystery—part treasure hunter, part ghost. Half the time he’s around, the other half he’s off chasing legends that’ll never bring her back. John B’s been raising himself since before any of us really understood what that meant. There's a quiet sadness in him, like he’s been waiting for someone to come back for years and pretending it doesn’t matter that no one has.
I crack open the beer, even though I hate the taste. “My parents had a meltdown. Again.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Pope mutters, but he smiles at me—gentle, like always.
Pope Heyward.
Pope is the most grounded of all of us, and that’s saying something. He lives in a quiet little house with two parents who love him loudly, maybe too loudly sometimes. They work harder than they should and expect him to climb higher than any of us can see. They think he’s got a future, a real one, and Pope doesn’t want to let them down. He goes to the same public school as the rest of us, but he studies like he's already on the edge of some invisible escape. A scholarship, a way out. That’s the plan. You can see it behind his eyes every time he talks about college—like he’s holding his breath until he gets there.
“Anyway,” I say, settling down between JJ and Pope, “the big news is: I’m officially starting Kildare Academy on Monday.”
They all groan.
“Damn,” JJ says, dragging the word out like it personally betrayed him. “You’re becoming one of them .”
“It can’t be that bad,” John B offers, half teasing, half trying to convince me—or himself.
“You weren’t there,” I mutter. “My mom looked like she was watching me get crowned.”
“Well, we always knew you were royalty,” JJ says with a dramatic bow. “Princess Carrera, heir to the throne of stuck-up expectations and lunch salads.”
We laugh, but it’s soft—cushioned in something more fragile than humor.
There’s silence for a moment. Not heavy, just... real.
“Are you scared?” Pope asks.
I shrug. “Not of the school. Just of losing this.”
I motion to all of it. The porch, the night air, the way our voices echo off the trees like they’ve been waiting for us. The way, for a few hours, we forget who we are when we go back home.
“You’re not losing us,” John B says, serious now.
JJ leans his head on my shoulder dramatically. “Unless you forget how to curse and start eating quinoa. Then you’re dead to me.”
I roll my eyes, but something inside me softens.
Here, on this porch, in the dark with them—I feel like myself again.
Not the daughter they want to fix.
Not the girl getting shipped off to become something shinier.
Just Kie.
The night starts slow, like a record warming up on an old turntable. The porch creaks under our weight and time stretches in that beautiful, useless way it does when you’re with the people who make you feel okay just being exactly who you are.
JJ lights a joint, shielding it with his hands like it’s sacred, then passes it to John B. They trade lazy grins. Pope declines, of course—he always does. I take it after, inhaling more for the ritual than the effect. The smoke stings my throat but softens the edges of everything.
“Do you think there’s, like… a parallel universe where we’re all exactly the same, but rich?” JJ asks suddenly, blowing smoke toward the stars.
John B snorts. “If there is, that version of me probably has a boat that doesn’t sink every five minutes.”
“And my dad hugs me,” JJ adds with a grin that burns.
The porch goes still. The kind of still where no one says “I’m sorry” because we’ve all agreed a long time ago not to make JJ talk about his dad unless he wants to. It’s just... quiet. Honest.
Pope shifts beside me, arms crossed, gaze on the sky. “In that universe, I already got into Duke. Early acceptance. Full ride.”
“You’ll get there,” I tell him, and I mean it. Pope is the kind of person who actually deserves a better world.
He smiles, small and tired. “Yeah. Maybe.”
I nod. That’s fair.
And then all their eyes swing to me.
I laugh. “What?”
JJ grins. “Parallel Kiara is definitely dating me.”
“No way,” Pope cuts in. “She’s probably, like, on the debate team. Wearing blazers. Arguing policy for fun.”
“Excuse you,” I say, holding up a finger. “Parallel Kiara is a badass. She’s a surf legend. She travels the world. She doesn’t care about grades or last names or brunches.”
“Same as this one, then,” John B says, and his voice is low, warm.
I feel it in my chest. That anchoring thing. That they see me thing.
We go quiet again. But this time it’s good quiet. Peaceful. Like the night wrapped around us is listening too.
And for a second, I let myself pretend none of this is ending. That Monday isn’t coming. That I won’t have to wear a uniform or walk marble halls like I belong there.
But then someone starts humming. JJ, of course. Some dumb pop song he swears is art. And Pope throws a cushion at him. And John B gets up and starts mock-dancing and we’re all laughing again, and I’m laughing too hard and I forget, just for a second, that everything’s changing.
Just for a second, I’m still me. With them. In this skin.
The night dies slow and soft. I don’t remember saying goodbye. I just remember the weight of it, settling into my bones like sea air. I bike back in the dark, the wheels whispering against the road, and I think: I’m not ready for this to be over.
Sundays used to be background noise. Brunches that bled into afternoons, my mom talking on the phone with someone I don’t like, my dad half-watching golf. But ever since they decided to fix my life for me, Sundays have started to feel like the waiting room before surgery. Everyone smiling. Everyone pretending they’re not scared.
I sit at the table, elbows off. My mom has this perfect roast she’s probably been basting all day, and my dad opens a bottle of wine like we’re celebrating something. I wonder what exactly—my funeral, maybe. The last meal before they ship me off to a school where I’ll be just another name on a list that doesn’t care about me.
They talk like it’s any other day. My mom complains about someone from her book club. My dad asks if the new car he ordered came in. I nod in the right places. Smile when I’m supposed to. But inside, I’m screaming.
The food tastes like nothing.
And then—like they’ve been waiting for the right moment—my mom looks at me and says, “You should lay out your uniform tonight. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”
My fork pauses mid-air. “Right.”
There’s a beat of silence. The kind that wants to be casual, but fails.
“You’ll see,” my dad says. “It’s going to be good for you. A new environment, new people. Challenge is good.”
He means well. He always does. But he still doesn’t get it.
“I don’t need to be challenged, Dad. I need to be understood.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “We just want you to be—set up. You know? Prepared.”
“For a life I didn’t ask for.”
My mom’s smile tightens. “We’re doing what’s best.”
“For you,” I say. “Not for me.”
Another silence.
I feel it again—that tightness in my throat like I’ve swallowed a stone. And this room, this dinner, this family, it all starts to feel so far away from the version of me that was laughing barefoot in the Chatíu less than twenty-four hours ago. Like I’ve already been split in two, and they’re feeding the version of me they made up in their heads.
I push the food around my plate. No one talks for a while.
Eventually, my mom stands to get dessert. My dad sips his wine. And I sit there, counting the hours till Monday morning, wishing I could stop time—or rewind it completely.
I don’t sleep. Not really. I toss around all night, limbs tangled in sheets, my heart dragging me between shallow dreams and the same thought on repeat: I don’t belong there. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s just school, it feels like something heavier. Something final.
By the time the sun starts to push itself into my room, I’m already awake. The light cuts through the blinds like it’s exposing me, and I just stare at the ceiling, letting that numb quiet spread over me.
I pull myself up. My body feels slow, like it knows where I’m going and doesn’t want to take me there.
The uniform is hanging on the back of my door. It’s crisp. Neat. Ugly. Not because it’s actually ugly, but because it’s not mine. The blazer feels like a costume. The skirt’s too stiff. I put it on anyway, button by button, pretending this isn’t a funeral for who I used to be.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I try to tame my curls—rizo a few pieces with the iron because I know my mom’s gonna make a comment. She always does when I “look put together.”
Right on cue, she walks by the hallway and pauses at the door. “You look beautiful.”
I don’t even look at her. “Don’t push it.”
We eat breakfast together. Cereal and silence. She keeps glancing at me like I’m about to vanish. Like I might bolt. I kind of want to.
“You’ll make friends,” she says softly, like it’s a promise.
“Sure,” I mumble, digging my spoon into soggy flakes. “Because nothing makes people more interesting than a dress code.”
She sighs. “Kiara, please.”
“What? I’m just saying.”
We don’t fight, not really. It’s more like this low hum of disappointment between us. A soundtrack we both know by heart.
When we walk out to the car, my dad’s already waiting behind the wheel. He gives me that hopeful-dad smile that feels like a Band-Aid over a bullet wound.
He says, “Just a couple weeks till your birthday, you know? Once you get your license, we’ll set you up with something. We’re already thinking about it.”
“That’s nice,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. Because it sounds like a gift, but feels like a bribe.
He adds, “Until then, if we can’t drive you, it’s either the bike or walk.”
“I’ll take the bike.”
The ride is quiet, just the hum of tires and the occasional click of the turn signal. I keep looking out the window, pretending to count trees, buildings, clouds—anything but the minutes.
And then the gates of Kildare appear, tall and silver and so out of place it makes my stomach twist. The kind of place that smells like pressure and legacy. Not belonging.
My mom turns around before I get out. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” I say, gripping the strap of my backpack so tight my knuckles go pale.
She gives me a look, and I give her one back.
And then I step out. Onto the clean sidewalk. Into the beginning of a world that isn’t mine.
The second my sneakers hit the polished stone of Kildare Academy, I feel it.
That shift.
Like the air here’s heavier, quieter, fake.
It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace, but from pressure. From knowing how much money and legacy walks through these halls. How many names matter more than yours. How many secrets the walls probably keep just for fun.
And I don’t belong.
Not here. Not in this polished, glassy world where girls wear lip gloss like armor and boys smell like generational wealth.
I walk slow at first, taking it all in. The white marble halls. The gilded crests. The stiff uniforms. It's like being dropped into a postcard no one asked for.
The stares start immediately. Quiet at first. Not cruel. Just… curious. Like why are you here? And I keep my chin up because I know exactly what they’re thinking. I’ve got a different cut to my skirt, my curls won’t stay flat no matter how much I tried this morning, and my name—Kiara Carrera—doesn’t roll off their tongues like it belongs on a brass plaque.
And then I see them.
Like the school waited to introduce them. The Golden Trio.
Kelce. Topper. Rafe.
And of course they see me.
Rafe Cameron, leaning against the brick wall like the cover of a prep school scandal. Hands in his pockets. That same smug smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Kelce stands a little behind him, quiet, observant. Topper's there too, looking like he always does — like he never outgrew the eighth grade.
Rich, untouchable, senior year, and bored out of their minds.
Rafe’s eyes land on me like they’re trying to find the weak spot. “Finally one of us,” he says, mouth curling, almost amused. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
I stare at him, holding my bag tighter. My heart’s doing that thing it does around him — the stupid skip.
Even when we were kids, I knew what he could be.
Back when our families dragged us to those polished benefit galas, the kind where the food was too fancy to taste like anything. Back then, Rafe was… not kind, exactly. But decent. Civil. The kind of boy who let his sisters talk, who looked people in the eye, who sometimes told dumb jokes in the corner of those stuffy rooms just to make Sarah laugh.
He changed after his mom died.
I did too, in a different way. We became everything the other couldn’t stand — or maybe we always were, and we just grew into it. He became the guy who only looked at the world like it was something to conquer or destroy. And I stopped caring what people like him thought.
But of course we’d end up here. On opposite ends of a war no one else remembers starting.
And of course, I’m the one who humiliated him at that gala two years ago, in front of everyone who mattered to him. And he’s the one who never let it go.
I could say something. I could bite back.
But not today.
“It's not like it was my choice,” I mutter, barely loud enough for only him to hear. “And I know you’re enjoying this, but I really don’t care. So… have a good day.”
I turn to go, heart in my throat. He doesn’t stop me.
But as I reach the door, his voice drifts behind me, light, almost a whisper.
“Good luck, Kie.”
A beat.
“You’re gonna need it.”
First period.
I can feel them before I even step fully into the room. The weight of their eyes, the silent pause that spreads across the classroom like spilled perfume—sweet, cloying, and hard to ignore. My sneakers squeak against the floor and suddenly I hate that sound. I hate that I even care that they’re looking.
They don't say anything, not out loud. But I hear it anyway.
“She used to hang out with the Pogues, right?”
“Yeah, but like... what is she even doing here now ?”
It’s not what they say—it’s how they say it. That tight tone wrapped in fake curiosity. The kind that cuts deeper than full-on hate ever could.
I sit down near the window. I don’t try to sit in the back, but nobody lets me anywhere else. Some guy snorts as I pass by. A girl twists in her seat to get a better look at me like I’m some new species she wants to figure out before lunch.
I keep my hands on my desk. My curls are loose today, still wet at the ends. My mom told me to wear them big and wild. “They’ll learn not to look when you don’t hide,” she said. But now, here, under these lights, I can feel them judging every strand like it’s out of place.
Someone behind me whispers, not really low enough.
“I bet she’s only here because she got kicked out of the other school.”
“I heard she was doing, like, military school or something.”
“Probably rehab.”
I don’t turn around.
I don’t blink.
I breathe once. In and out.
And I remind myself that they don’t know me. They think they do, but they don’t.
Second period.
I recognize her before she even turns her head.
Sarah Cameron.
There’s a moment, just a flicker in time, where neither of us says anything. She’s sitting at a desk near the center, her blonde hair in soft waves, sweater pressed and pristine like she hasn’t sweat a single moment in her life. She looks exactly the same. Like money, like expectation, like someone who was born to be adored.
We grew up around the same circles—because our parents insisted on showing up at the same fundraisers and yacht dinners and end-of-year luncheons. I never liked those things, but I was forced to sit through them, dressed in stiff clothes and taught to say “thank you” with a smile. Sarah was always there too, playing her part perfectly. She fit the mold so well I used to wonder if she ever questioned it.
She turns, her eyes widen just slightly. “Kiara? I thought that was you.”
Her voice is soft. Polite. And somehow that makes it worse. Like nothing ever happened. Like this isn’t weird at all.
I nod. “Hey.”
That’s all.
I don’t ask her how she’s been or why she’s still pretending I’m someone she used to know.
I remember once—maybe three years ago, one of those charity beach cleanups my mom insisted we attend—she sat next to me during the boxed-lunch break. We were both sunburned and sand-sticky and over it. I’d just muttered something about how these people don’t actually care about the ocean, and she looked at me for a second longer than I expected. Then she said, “You’re probably right,” like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.
That was the only real moment we ever had.
The rest? All rehearsed smiles and quick glances. I don’t hate Sarah. But there’s something about her that’s always felt a little... off . Like her life is one big performance and she’s too scared to forget her lines.
She doesn’t try to talk more, and I’m glad. She just nods once and turns her attention to the front.
For a second, I almost want to thank her for that.
Third period drifts by like smoke.
Thin, colorless, impossible to hold on to.
I’m sure someone says something about Lincoln. Or maybe it’s the Reconstruction. Or the Dust Bowl? My head is heavy, like it’s full of cotton, and everything the teacher says slides off my skin like oil on water.
I’m not really here.
Not entirely.
Not anymore.
Somewhere between second period and now, I lost myself.
I keep staring at the clock—watching its second hand drag itself forward, like even it doesn’t want to be here. And my body is just... sitting. Still. Compliant. It knows how to play the role. Hands folded. Eyes forward. Mouth shut.
But inside?
I’m pacing.
I’m screaming.
I'm trying to crawl out of my own skin.
Because third period means lunch is next.
And lunch is worse than anything. Worse than the stares, worse than the whispers, worse than the way the teachers say my name like they already regret having to learn it.
Lunch is where the real game starts.
Where your place on the food chain becomes painfully, publicly clear.
The bell rings and my body moves before my mind can catch up. I walk down the hallway with my books clutched too tight against my chest, like they’ll shield me from something. Like maybe I can disappear behind them.
The cafeteria is already humming. Plastic trays clattering, sneakers squeaking against polished floors, forks scraping against teeth. Laughter in the wrong tone. And everything smells like warmed-over ketchup and anxiety.
I hesitate at the threshold.
Like it’s a cliff I’m not sure I want to fall off.
And then I hear her.
My mother.
Not in real time, but in the kind of memory that presses down on your ribcage when you need it to the least.
"Just try, Kiara. You won’t know unless you try. Not everyone is the same."
She said that while helping me zip up the back of my dress at Nordstrom, when I told her I didn’t want to do this.
Didn’t want the uniform, the name tag, the khaki skirt that made me feel like I was playing pretend. Didn’t want the polished halls and the hundred-dollar highlights and the way they’d all look at me like I’d wandered out of the wrong brochure.
But I’m here now.
So I walk.
I make myself walk.
I scan the room quickly, eyes flicking past every table that’s already full of people—people laughing, whispering, tossing their hair, leaning in too close. Every seat already claimed. Every circle already closed.
Except one.
A group of girls—not overly intimidating, not openly hostile, just... indifferent.
Their eyes skim over me the way you'd glance at something on sale in a store you’d never shop at. Casual disinterest.
I walk up to them anyway.
“Mind if I sit?”
One girl looks up. Blonde, perfect teeth, lip gloss the color of a summer rosé. She shrugs, not unkindly, but not kindly either.
“Sure.”
That’s all I get.
I lower myself into the seat and feel the air shift immediately.
I’m not part of the conversation. I’m not even beside it. I’m outside it. Like watching a scene unfold through a pane of glass—silent, blurry, distant.
They talk about their boyfriends’ boats.
Someone’s sweet sixteen in Atlanta.
A girl who got too drunk at a party and ended up puking in a pool house.
They talk about a friend’s cousin who “got fat” and should “just stop eating bread.”
They say these things with sugar on their tongues and malice in their eyes.
They smile when they talk about other girls’ failures.
They laugh like it’s a sport.
And I sit there, swallowing the burn behind my teeth, pretending my salad is interesting enough to keep me quiet.
But I’m not stupid.
I hear it.
The undertone in their voices.
That pitch-perfect kind of cruelty that doesn’t need to be loud to draw blood.
Someone glances at me mid-conversation and says, “Weren’t you, like... friends with that kid JJ? The one who stole the golf cart at The Dunes?”
I freeze for half a second too long before answering.
“Used to be,” I say. My voice is flat. Neutral. I want to punch myself for not leaving already.
The girl just smirks. “Figures.”
And the others snicker like they know exactly what she means.
Like I’m a punchline they’ve been saving.
I want to say something. I want to snap.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, I’m proving them right.
So I just nod, finish chewing a bite of something I can’t even taste, and feel the world start to tilt.
There’s this pressure in my throat—tight, rising. The kind you get right before you cry but refuse to.
I can feel the back of my neck getting hot. I can feel the edges of my vision pulsing.
They keep talking.
Keep laughing.
Keep peeling skin off the world like it’s just another thing to play with.
And I’ve had enough.
“I forgot something,” I say, standing abruptly.
None of them ask what.
None of them tell me to stay.
I leave my tray behind.
Walk out without looking back.
In the hallway, the silence hits me like a door slamming shut.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and suddenly everything inside me feels too full—too loud.
Like the words I didn’t say are echoing through my bones.
I want to go home.
I want to crawl into my bed, under my covers, and pretend this place doesn’t exist.
But I can’t.
So I keep walking.
One foot in front of the other.
Even if it feels like I’m dragging every part of myself behind me.
I end up in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, hands braced against the sink. I breathe in. Out. I blink back whatever's rising. I’m not going to cry over this. Not on day one.
My phone buzzes.
JJ : u good?
Pope : you better not be sitting with mean girls. come back to us.
John B : still wanna ditch everything and surf?
They don’t know it, but that’s what keeps me together. The Pogues. My people. Even if I’m wearing a new uniform, with new shoes, in a place that makes me feel like I’m rotting from the inside out— they still see me . They’re not trying to fix it. Just trying to be there. It’s enough to make me smile through the hurt.
Just a little.
My fingers hover over the screen for a second before I respond.
Me : Bathroom. Needed a sec. Still breathing.
JJ : You better be. Pope says if you come home crying we gotta do a drive-by.
Pope : I said “only if necessary,” bro.
John B : I say go full Mad Max.
A smile ghosts across my lips before I tuck the phone away. I look at myself in the mirror again. Hair still wild. Eyes sharp. Lipstick still intact, somehow. I roll my shoulders back. If I stay in here any longer, I might actually melt into the tile.
So I open the door.
And there they are.
Three girls, clustered like they’ve been waiting for me. Maybe they have.
One of them looks me up and down, slow and theatrical, like she’s checking the label on something secondhand. Her lip curls. “Wow. That was fast. First lunch, already crying in the bathroom?”
Another leans against the wall, chewing gum like she’s auditioning for the role of high school cliché. “You good, Carrera? Or is that what you Pogues do when you don’t get invited to sit at the real tables?”
There it is. The word. Sharp and spit-covered. Like it doesn’t belong in these halls.
I don’t say anything. Not because I’m scared. Because if I open my mouth, I might say too much.
You don’t know me.
You don’t know what I’ve seen.
You think you can chew me up with your trust funds and daddy’s yacht and that name-brand smirk—
I want to. God, I want to. My knuckles clench. My jaw locks.
But I just walk. Right past them. My silence is colder than anything I could say. I know that. I hope they feel it when I don’t even flinch.
Still, it stays with me. It always does. The burn. The sting behind the eyes.
And just when I think the air outside the bathroom will clear my lungs again, my phone vibrates once more.
JJ : Say the word and I’ll dropkick a prep.
I breathe out, long and slow, thumb hovering over the screen.
Me : Not yet.
Fourth Period
I make it through the next few hours like a ghost trapped in someone else’s body. I don’t remember the halls I walk through, or the voices that pass me by. My eyes blur out colors and my thoughts run cold. For a moment, I almost forget where I am. Or maybe I just stop caring.
But then the bell rings again, sharp and cruel, and I find myself stepping into my last class of the day.
The room smells like fake lemon disinfectant and teenage sweat. The kind of sterile place where boredom dies and is reborn every forty-five minutes. I slide into the seat furthest from the door. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. Not out of fear—just exhaustion. I’ve had enough performances for one day.
And then I hear it.
Low enough to be cowardly, but just loud enough to reach
A few soft laughs follow. Muted. Male. Sharp.
I don’t look. I freeze.
Not because it shocks me—this isn’t the first time—but because it still hits something raw. Something old. Something tired. I stare ahead, lips tight, hands folded under the desk like I might crush them into stone.
I can feel his eyes. One of those boys who thinks he’s invisible when he whispers. That he has the right to say things out loud just because he can. That kind of boy.
I want to say something. Rip him apart with words so sharp he bleeds for a week.
But I’m too aware of the room. The air. My heartbeat. My skin.
So instead, I swallow the heat rising in my throat and keep still. Like prey.
I hate myself for that.
The door opens again, and for a second the hallway light floods in.
That’s when I see her.
Sarah Cameron.
I hadn’t realized we were in the same year. Somehow I’d forgotten—or maybe I never noticed—that we’re in almost all the same classes.
She walks in like someone who’s been in every room before, without needing to claim it. Effortless. Golden. That annoying, glittering kind of beautiful that people mistake for kindness.
She catches my eye. Just briefly.
And she smiles. A small, polite smile. Nothing big. Nothing fake.
I mirror it. Barely.
That’s it. No words. No nods.
Still… it sticks with me longer than I want it to.
Maybe because it’s the only human gesture I’ve gotten today that didn’t come wrapped in judgment or lust.
It fades fast. I don’t linger. But for a second—just a flicker of a second—I wonder about her.
Just like that, the class is over so my day in this hell.
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear it. “Yo. What up?”
I glance sideways and see Kelce walking up beside me like we’ve been in the middle of a conversation I didn’t know I agreed to join. He nods like we’ve got history. We don’t.
“I swear, my shoe’s been tryna end me all day,” he says, holding up one foot for dramatic effect. “Almost faceplanted back there.”
I raise a brow, unimpressed but mildly amused. “Tragic.”
There’s a pause. A beat. Like he’s deciding if he wants to keep going.
Then: “So… you always walk this fast, or are you just trying to get away from me?”
I give him a side-eye. “Maybe both.” He grins like I’ve just handed him a win.
“Harsh. I mean, if I knew I had to work for your attention, I would’ve brought snacks or something.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Tempting.”
“Anyway,” he says, undeterred. “If you ever feel like slowing down, we usually sit by the windows at lunch.”
“Thanks,” I say, tone flat. “I guess.”
He smirks, gives a little salute like we’ve just made some sort of arrangement, and veers off down the hall. God. Boys.
I keep walking, just wanting to get to my locker when I feel that shift. That static in the air that happens right before something annoying.
“Bye, Kie.”
The voice is behind me but already moving past.
I don’t have to look. I know it’s him.
Rafe fucking Cameron.
He’s with some girl—long legs, loud laugh, a face I don’t recognize but immediately want to forget.
He doesn’t stop. Just throws the words out like a stone over his shoulder, and keeps walking.
I don’t answer.
I don’t give him the satisfaction.
But in my head: Bye, asshole.
The sun hits hard when I step outside, not because it’s hot—though it is—but because it’s the first time I’m breathing since this morning. I blink against the light, as if I’d forgotten there’s a world beyond the linoleum floors and low whispers.
Then I see it.
The truck.
Her truck.
Parked too neatly against the curb, the old blue Toyota that smells like lavender and exhaustion, engine still running. My chest tightens in that automatic way it does when things are complicated—when people try to do right by you, and it still doesn’t feel right.
She’s leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, sunglasses on. I wonder how long she’s been waiting there like that. Probably rehearsing what she’ll say. Probably thinking this will be the moment we get along again.
I adjust the strap of my backpack and start walking toward her. Each step feels like crossing some invisible line—like choosing between forgiveness and pride, and not quite wanting to pick either.
When I reach the passenger side, she opens the door from inside. No “hey.” No “how was it?” Not yet. Just a glance.
“Get in,” she says, voice soft but clipped. Like she’s trying not to sound too hopeful. Like I won’t notice.
I slide in. Shut the door.
The silence stretches as she pulls away from the curb.
“You didn’t text me,” she says finally.
“I forgot,” I lie.
She exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh. “Well, I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
I nod, looking out the window. “I’m not twelve.”
She doesn’t say anything for a second. Then:
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
I turn to her. “Do what?”
“This attitude. Punishing me.”
I blink. “You think this is about punishment?”
She tightens her grip on the wheel. “Isn’t it?”
I look back out the window, jaw tight. The buildings blur past. Kids on bikes. A woman walking her dog. People doing normal things.
“No, it is not” I say quietly.
She doesn’t respond to that. Maybe because she doesn’t know how. Maybe because she knows I’m right. We ride the rest of the way in silence, the kind that isn’t peaceful—just full of all the words neither of us has figured out how to say.
The road hums beneath us, a low, steady reminder that time is moving forward whether we like it or not. My fingers rest on my knee, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. She hasn’t said anything in a minute, but I can feel the question forming in her mouth, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.
She clears her throat.
“So,” she says, like the word weighs more than it should. “How was it?”
I look at her. Not long, just enough to see she’s trying. That tired hope in her eyes—too familiar.
“Fine,” I answer.
She gives a quiet little laugh, not because anything’s funny, but because she knows I’m giving her nothing. “Just fine?”
I shrug. “It’s school. Everyone hates it.”
“That bad, huh?”
I hesitate. She sounds genuinely curious, not like she’s prying. Just trying to find a way in. I almost let her have it. Almost.
“There’s worse things,” I say.
She nods slowly, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. “Did you meet anyone?”
I tilt my head, staring out at the trees flashing past the window. “A couple people.”
“Any nice ones?”
That makes me pause.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Her hands tense on the wheel, just a fraction. “Kiara…”
“What?” I ask, already bracing.
“You’re not even trying.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” she says, glancing at me with that look. “You go one day and already everyone’s not ‘nice’? You don’t think maybe you’re… prejudging them a little?”
I let out a breath, sharp and bitter. “Right. Because clearly I haven’t spent years surrounded by this exact same type of people.”
“It’s not the same,” she says quickly. “This is a new school, new start. You’re supposed to give people a chance, not walk in already convinced they’ll suck.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “You really think I didn’t try?”
“I think you decided how it would go before you even stepped out of the car this morning.”
That stings. More than I’ll admit.
“Well, sorry I didn’t magically fall in love with private school in one day,” I mutter.
“I’m not asking you to love it. I’m asking you to be open.”
“I was open,” I say, my voice low. “You just don’t like the answer.”
We fall into silence again, but this one’s heavier than before. Not angry—just disappointed. The kind that sits in your throat and doesn’t move.
The sun’s already starting to dip, casting long orange shadows across the dashboard. Her grip on the wheel loosens as we pull into our street. She exhales like she’s been holding something in the whole ride.
“You don’t have to make everything harder than it already is,” she says quietly.
I don’t answer.
Because I’m not sure if she means the school, or me.
Or both.
We pull up in front of the house. She kills the engine, and for a second, neither of us moves.
Then I reach for the door handle.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, without looking back.
“Kiara—” she starts, but I’m already stepping out, letting the door shut softly behind me.
My room smells the same.
A mix of sea salt, shampoo, and something older—like memories left too long in the sun. I toss my backpack onto the floor, shut the door behind me, and lean against it for a second. Just breathing. Just… being still.
I close my eyes.
The silence swells, thick and pressing, like the ocean just before it pulls you under. I drag myself to the bed and sit at the edge, elbows on knees, face in my hands.
It’s not that anything terrible happened. It’s that it didn’t have to.
It’s the way people look at you like they’ve already filed you under weird, loud, not one of us. It’s the way your mom thinks you’re not trying when you’ve been white-knuckling it all day just to make it through.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see sparks. Just to feel something different.
Then I lie back.
And I let myself feel it.
That familiar ache of being too much and not enough at the same time.
That low, stupid voice in your head that says: maybe this was a mistake.
My phone buzzes.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then again.
With a sigh, I reach for it, already expecting something dumb from some random class thread.
But it’s them.
Pogues 🐟
JJ: u dead? 👀
Pope: if she’s dead I call her closet
John B: she def died
JJ: press F to pay respects
Pope: guys she hasn’t even been gone a full day
JJ: and yet it feels like a YEAR
I can’t help it. My lips twitch.
I type back:
Kiara: y’all are insufferable
JJ: she LIVES
John B: omg it’s a miracle
Pope: I was genuinely gonna give your mom a casserole
I laugh. A real one, short and sharp, like it surprises me on the way out.
JJ: how was kookland?
Kiara: like I died and woke up in a Vineyard Vines catalog
Pope: oh god
JJ: did anyone call you “ethnically ambiguous” yet or
Kiara: don’t manifest
John B: you ok tho?
I pause. My fingers hover over the keyboard. Then I let them type.
Kiara: not really
Kiara: but I’m getting there
JJ: well
JJ: get there faster
Pope: come to the chateau
John B: yeah
JJ: we have bad snacks and worse decisions
Kiara: sounds healing
Pope: we got you
JJ: always
I stare at the screen for a second. That ache in my chest doesn’t vanish. But it shifts. Loosens.
I toss my phone on the bed, grab my hoodie, and stand.
Because maybe I don’t have to do all of this alone.
Not tonight.
I grab my hoodie, stuff my phone in my pocket, and head toward the front door as quietly as I can. The lights in the hallway feel too bright, like they’re waiting to expose me. I’m almost there when—
“Where are you going?”
My mom’s voice slices through the quiet like glass on tile.
I turn, slow. She’s in the kitchen, arms crossed, the weight of her gaze already heavy on my shoulders. My dad’s by the sink, drying a plate, eyes flickering between us like he’s hoping this won’t be what it always turns into.
“I’m just going to the Château,” I say.
My mom steps forward, brows lifting. “Now?”
I shrug, keeping my tone even. “Yeah. I just—They’re my friends. I need to breathe a little, that’s all.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m lying or delusional.
Then: “Kiara, it’s a school night.”
“So?”
“So you have class tomorrow. Early. And this—” she gestures toward the door like it’s some grand betrayal “—is not happening. You can see them this weekend.”
My throat tightens. “Seriously?”
“You’ve barely even unpacked, and now you think you can just run off every time something feels hard? That’s not how this works.”
“I’m not running off,” I snap, before I can stop myself. “I made it through a day of pretending I belong in a place that makes me feel like a stranger. I’ve done everything you wanted—new school, new attitude, trying to fit into this fake-ass picture—”
“Watch your tone.”
Her voice is sharp now, brittle.
I blink, jaw tight. “You think I haven’t tried? I’m trying every second. You just don’t see it unless it looks the way you want it to.”
My dad steps in then, hands up like he’s the peacekeeper. “Hey, hey, let’s take it down a notch, alright?”
But I can already see it in his face—he’s not neutral. He’s just quieter about picking sides.
“She can see her friends on the weekend,” my mom says again, this time to him, but loud enough for me. “We agreed on that.”
He nods slowly, eyes on me. “It’s not forever, Ki. Just… stick to the plan for now.”
The plan.
Like this is some mission. Like I haven’t already lost pieces of myself just walking through the damn halls.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard.
Then I turn, walk back down the hallway without another word.
I slam the door harder than I mean to. Not because I want to be dramatic—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because I don’t want to cry in front of them.
Not her.
My mom’s voice still rings in my head, clipped and sharp: “You can see your friends on the weekend. Tomorrow’s school.”
Like I didn’t already survive the worst Monday of my life. Like I hadn’t earned even a damn hour of peace.
My dad didn’t help either.
Not really. Just stood there like he always does, hands in his pockets, nodding along like his silence makes him neutral. Like that makes it okay.
I throw myself onto the bed.
Stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur.
Breathe.
Try not to let the anger boil over.
Fail.
About an hour later, my phone lights up. The first text hits like a reminder of everything I just lost tonight.
JJ: KIE where tf r u
JOHN B: U good?
POPE: Did something happen?
JJ: Kiaraaaa answer or I’m staging a rescue mission rn
Then the calls come.
One.
Two.
Three.
I don’t answer.
I don’t even open the texts again.
I turn my screen face down.
Because what am I supposed to say?
“Hey, sorry I ghosted, my mom still thinks I’m twelve and grounded me for… trying to be happy”?
Nah.
I curl into myself under the blanket.
Everything’s heavy. My limbs, my chest, my thoughts. The idea of spending the whole school year like this—it makes my stomach twist.
If this is day one…
What the hell is left of me by June?
My eyes burn. But I don’t cry.
I just let the darkness come.
Let it cover me.
Let it take me somewhere else.
Sleep hits like a wave.
And I don’t fight it.
Chapter 2: Shut the Door on Your Way Out
Summary:
A car slows beside me. Headlights dim.
“Hey, Kie,” a voice calls out—smug, familiar.
I turn without stopping. There he is.
Rafe Cameron. Elbow hanging out the open window of his truck, watching me like I’m the punchline to a joke he hasn’t told yet.
“You lost or just tryna get your steps in?” he smirks. “Need a ride back to Barbie Bootcamp?”
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
But he creeps the truck along anyway, matching my pace.
“I liked the curls better, by the way,” he says, glancing at my hair. “They were… more you. This? Bit Stepford.”
That.
I stop walking.
Rafe stops too.
Notes:
This chapter is about a shift. One that Kiara didn’t ask for, and definitely didn’t want.
She’s not just switching schools — she’s being pushed into a version of herself that doesn’t feel hers.
In this chapter, I wanted to capture the quiet kind of heartbreak: the kind that comes from being misunderstood by the people who are supposed to know you best.
The anger, the loneliness, and the weight of always being expected to be okay.
This is what it looks like when your world moves on without waiting for you to catch up.
ALSO, MORE RIARA INTERACTIONS.
Chapter Text
It’s been a week.
Seven days into the kook year and I already feel like I’m disappearing in plain sight.
No one says anything to my face. They don’t need to.
They smile too politely, glance too quickly, and talk just low enough that I hear the rhythm but not the words. I’m not dumb. I know what it means.
I sit in the back. I don’t eat lunch. I pretend to be on my phone while scrolling through nothing.
Even my friends—if I can still call them that—have stopped pushing. JJ sent a voice note this morning. I didn’t open it.
Too much energy to pretend I’m still part of that world.
And my parents…
They’re trying, I think.
Which somehow makes it worse.
My mom knocks on my door every morning like it’s a ritual now.
Leaves breakfast I don’t eat. Asks if I want to talk.
I tell her I’m late. Even when I’m not.
It’s Saturday.
I should’ve gone to the Château. Should’ve let them drag me into the water, scream into the wind, remind me what it feels like to laugh without thinking.
But before I could text maybe, my mom is already standing at my door.
“Girls’ day,” she says.
Just like that.
I don’t argue.
Don’t say no.
Don’t feel like explaining why I don’t want to sit across from her pretending we have anything to talk about.
So I nod. Or maybe I don’t. But she takes it as a yes anyway.
She takes me to lunch—some place with fake plants and lemon-infused water.
She asks about school. I give her half-shrugs.
She talks about a book club she joined. I pretend to care.
She brings up the past like it’s a comfort:
“You used to love pink. Remember that dress with the glitter straps?”
I look at my fork and say nothing.
She takes that as nostalgia. It’s not.
Then she says it.
Maybe too casually. Maybe not.
“You know what helps sometimes? A change on the outside. When you’re closing a cycle.”
I don’t even blink.
“What, like a makeover?”
She smiles. “Something simple. Your hair, maybe.”
She pauses. Sips her drink. Then:
“You’ve always wondered what it’d be like to straighten it, haven’t you?”
Had I?
Maybe once. A long time ago. Before I knew better.
But I don’t say that.
I just sit there, letting her think she’s making progress.
Because she’s trying. And I’m too tired to fight someone who still cares enough to try.
So yeah.
She makes the appointment.
And I don’t stop her.
The blow dryer clicks off and for a second, it’s quiet enough to hear my own breath.
Warm air still clings to my neck, my scalp, my ears. I blink at the mirror.
She—the woman who’s been tugging and smoothing and coating me in chemicals for the past hour—steps back, gives me that satisfied smile like I’m a cake she just pulled out of the oven.
“There,” she says. “What do you think?”
I stare.
My hair falls straight past my shoulders. Sleek, glossy, flat.
Like it doesn’t even belong to me.
Like someone pressed erase over the girl I used to be and redrew her with thinner lines.
Sharper. Softer. Less... wild.
For a second, I don’t recognize myself.
And that should bother me more than it does.
My mom appears behind me in the mirror. Her eyes light up like she’s seeing a memory come back to life.
“You look beautiful, Kiara.”
I don’t answer.
Not because I disagree—
but because I don’t know if “beautiful” feels like a compliment anymore.
In the car, I watch the reflection of my face in the window the whole ride home.
Something about it looks quieter now. Smaller.
And yeah, I know how that sounds. Dramatic. Stupid. It’s just hair.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the way I didn’t argue. The way I sat still.
The way I let it happen.
One week in and I’d already let my mom make decisions for me.
One week in and I’d already stopped fighting.
I used to hate girls who changed themselves for a school.
Now I’m wondering if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Or maybe I’m just tired of being difficult.
Maybe it’s easier this way.
I don’t know.
But the worst part is…
I kind of like how it looks.
Back home, I don’t even go upstairs.
Just walk into the kitchen and lean against the doorframe.
She’s still at the counter, peeling fruit like we’re in some quiet version of a family commercial.
I clear my throat.
“Would you drive me to the Château?”
She doesn’t look up right away.
Then she does.
There’s a pause—long enough for me to brace for something.
But she just nods.
“Sure.”
The car ride is quiet, which is better.
No music. No questions. Just the road and the occasional turn signal.
She doesn’t ask who’s there.
Doesn’t ask how long I’m staying or if I’ll be back tonight.
Maybe she doesn’t want to break whatever peace we managed to fake today.
Or maybe she gets it—that I need this.
When we pull up, the porch light’s on.
I spot JJ’s laugh before I even see him. John B’s sitting on the rail. Pope’s leaning against the doorframe, holding something in one hand and waving with the other.
Normal. Loud. Us.
She parks, puts the car in neutral, but doesn’t turn it off.
I reach for the door handle.
Before I get out, she says, “Have fun.”
Simple. Not forced.
I nod. “Thanks.”
And that’s it.
I close the door. Walk toward the porch.
And for the first time in days, I feel like I might actually belong somewhere.
Even if I’m not sure I remember how to.
JJ’s the first to notice.
He squints from the porch like I’m a UFO, then breaks into a wide grin.
“No fucking way,” he says, stepping down. “Is that… is that straight hair on Kiara Carrera?”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already smiling.
Pope leans forward, squinting too.
“Is this a kook year makeover or a witness protection situation?”
I flip them off as I reach the bottom step.
John B claps once, exaggerated. “She’s glowing. It’s giving… elite private school mystery girl.”
I shake my head, but they’re all crowding around me now, circling like I’m an exhibit.
JJ’s hands hover near my shoulders. “Can I touch it or will it curse me?”
“You touch me and I’ll break your fingers,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.
He grins. “Damn. It’s soft. Like expensive soft.”
Pope raises his eyebrows. “So this is who you are now.”
I look at them. “Shut up. I was bored.”
John B shrugs. “Honestly, it looks good.”
JJ nods. “Yeah. You look kinda… grown.”
There’s a beat of silence.
And I don’t know why, but that’s the comment that gets to me.
Grown . Like I left something behind.
Like they can see it, too.
Inside, it smells like beer, sunscreen, and the kind of cheap pizza you can only love if you’re broke or seventeen.
It’s familiar. Warm. Stupid. I love it.
I drop onto the couch, JJ tosses me a bottle, and for the next hour, it almost feels normal again.
We sit with our legs tangled.
We talk over each other.
We laugh too loud.
Pope rants about a history teacher who definitely has a vendetta.
John B’s got a new theory about why his van keeps dying—something about ghosts, apparently.
JJ keeps trying to get us to play poker even though he always cheats.
It’s not perfect. But it’s us .
And I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.
Somewhere between the second round of drinks and Pope retelling the story of that time JJ accidentally stole a jet ski, the mood shifts.
Subtle at first.
A joke that lands a little weird.
A silence that stretches too long.
John B’s the one who says it.
“So, how’s kook life?”
He tries to make it sound casual, but he’s watching me too closely.
I shrug. “It’s school.”
JJ snorts. “Yeah, but like. Fancy school. Uniforms and fountains and shit.”
“It’s not that deep,” I say, keeping my tone flat.
Pope tilts his head. “Must be nice, though. You get AC in your classrooms?”
JJ adds, “Do the chairs have cushions? Tell me the chairs have cushions.”
I laugh, but it’s thinner now.
“Guys…”
Pope doesn’t stop. “Just saying. Some of us wouldn’t mind a shot at that kind of setup.”
There’s something in his voice. Not a joke. Not really.
I sit up a little straighter.
JJ’s still lounging, but he’s watching me now too. Like he’s waiting.
“I just don’t get why you didn’t fight it harder this time,” he says, tossing a chip in his mouth, all casual. “Last year you went full Hunger Games on your parents when they tried to pull this shit.”
And everything in me stiffens.
“I did fight it,” I say.
But it’s too quiet. Too calm. I say it like I’m trying to convince myself.
Pope chimes in, “I mean, it’s not like they sent you to military school. It’s just the Academy. People would kill for that chance.”
Oh, here we go.
“I didn’t want a chance. I wanted this ,” I snap, waving my hand around like it means something. “I wanted to stay .”
“Why?” JJ leans forward. “So you can keep slumming it with us losers?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Feels like it.”
John B’s trying to mediate, as always. “Kie, no one’s blaming you. It just—it sucks, okay? One day you’re here, and the next you’re not. And now you’re... what, getting chauffeured around by your mom?”
My jaw clenches.
I don’t know what I expected coming here. Maybe some jokes. A hug. Some leftover resentment simmering beneath the surface—but not this .
Not being called out for trying to survive.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say, trying not to raise my voice. “I didn’t choose to leave. I just— I was tired of fighting.”
“So you gave up,” JJ says, like it’s fact.
And that’s when I lose it.
“I gave up?!” I stand, because suddenly I can’t breathe sitting down. “You think I gave up? I spent days screaming, crying, begging them not to take me to that school. and you're making me feel like it’s my fault?”
They all go quiet.
Like that.
And I hate that silence more than anything they've said.
Pope shrugs. “You always have a choice, Kie.”
I scoff. “Easy for you to say. Your parents don’t treat your life like a chessboard.”
“Yeah, well, some of us would kill to have even half your options,” he snaps. “You're acting like it's some prison, but do you even hear yourself? You sound so—spoiled.”
My mouth drops open. “Spoiled?”
And now it’s JJ, and even John B nodding, backing him up.
“Look, we love you,” John B says, “but you gotta admit—you’re living in a mansion with a pool and organic groceries and weekend boat trips. And we’re just... here.”
JJ adds, “You always complain about your parents, but at least they care . You think mine even noticed I was gone last week?”
I feel the sting behind my eyes before I can stop it.
I want to yell. I want to scream at all of them. I want to remind them of the nights I cried myself to sleep, of how hard it is to smile at a family who only wants to mold you into something prettier, quieter, safer.
But instead, I just whisper, “You don’t know what it’s like.”
They don’t answer.
And that’s all it takes.
I grab my bag, ignoring how my hands are shaking.
“Where are you going?” John B asks, already regretting the tone.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Somewhere where I’m not a punchline.”
Maybe they were right.
Maybe I am a spoiled little brat. And I didn’t even notice.
That thought won't leave me alone. It's like a mosquito trapped inside my skull—tiny, whiny, impossible to ignore.
I keep replaying their faces in my head, their voices. Pope’s sharp, disappointed tone. JJ’s look— that look—somewhere between hurt and annoyed, like I was just one more thing going wrong for him.
I felt ganged up on. But maybe that’s just because I knew they had a point.
The thing is—I did fight. They don’t know how hard I tried to stay.
How many nights I screamed until my throat burned and my mom said things she didn’t mean and I said things I did mean.
And it didn’t matter. I still ended up in the damn white skirt and polo shirt. Still had to brush my hair straight and smile like this was some grand upgrade. Still had to pretend like I wasn’t ripping a piece of myself out every time I said “I’ll try” instead of “no.”
But maybe… maybe they were tired too.
Tired of hearing me complain when all they see is me stepping into something they’d kill for.
It’s not that I think I’m better. God, I don’t.
But I do think they don’t see it all.
They don’t see the quiet. The lonely. The weird feeling of walking into a place where no one knows you. Of sitting in classrooms where teachers mispronounce your name, where your jokes fall flat, where your voice sounds too loud or too soft and you can’t tell which one it is anymore.
I miss them.
I miss me.
Or the me I used to be with them.
The laughing-too-hard me. The jumping-into-the-creek me. The always-had-an-answer me.
I don’t feel like her anymore. I feel like I’m dressed in her skin, but it’s gone stiff around the edges.
And I hate that they made me feel like I don’t get to miss that.
Like I’m not allowed to feel both lucky and completely lost at the same time.
Was I exaggerating?
Maybe.
Maybe I made it all heavier than it was.
But also… maybe this was the sign.
Maybe this was the universe gently pushing me toward the truth I didn’t want to admit:
That this new life, this shiny, polished thing—
It isn’t temporary.
And maybe they’re not a part of it anymore.
And maybe… I’m not a part of them .
And it fucking hurts.
But I don’t know what to do with it yet.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. I wander into Figure Eight without even noticing—like my legs drag me here out of muscle memory. Streetlamps flick on one by one, casting warm pools of light across polished cars and clipped lawns. I’ve always hated how quiet it is here. Like even the air doesn’t want to stir unless it’s given permission.
A car slows beside me. Headlights dim.
“Hey, Kie,” a voice calls out—smug, familiar.
I turn without stopping. There he is. Rafe Cameron.
Elbow hanging out the open window of his truck, watching me like I’m the punchline to a joke he hasn’t told yet. “You lost or just tryna get your steps in?” he smirks. “Need a ride back to Barbie Bootcamp?”
I roll my eyes and keep walking.
But he creeps the truck along anyway, matching my pace. “I liked the curls better, by the way,” he says, glancing at my hair. “They were… more you. This? Bit Stepford.”
That.
I stop walking.
Rafe stops too.
“Wow,” I mutter, turning to face him fully. “You out here giving fashion advice now? Should I take notes before your next psychotic break?”
He laughs. “See? There’s the Kie I remember.”
“Well, maybe you don’t remember much, Rafe, ’cause last I checked you weren’t exactly paying attention when the world didn’t revolve around you.”
His grin twitches—not quite faltering, not quite holding. I can see something flicker in his eyes. Not hurt—he doesn’t do hurt—but interest. Like he didn’t expect me to fight back with anything real. “You seem stressed,” he says, tapping the steering wheel. “Let me guess. Trouble in poor paradise?”
“Go bother someone else,” I snap. “I'm not in the mood.”
He leans back in his seat, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “You never are,” he says. “Always too busy being mad at everyone for not getting your struggle.”
That one hits. I stiffen. “You don’t know shit about me,” I say, voice low.
“I know enough.” He shrugs, letting the truck idle quietly.
“I know that look. You just fought with your little pogue crew, huh?”
I don’t answer.
Rafe smiles wider. “Guess the makeover didn’t buy you a personality transplant after all.”
I take a breath so sharp it hurts my ribs. “I’d rather be a personality crisis than a walking trauma dump with daddy’s credit card.”
That wipes the smirk off his face—just for a second. “Touché,” he says, leaning back. “Good luck with that walk. See you on Monday, Kie.”
Then he rolls the window up and drives off, tires humming low against the smooth road. I don’t watch him go. But I let out a breath that trembles all the same. And I keep walking.
I walk straight to my room the second I step inside. No detours. No goodnights. No explanations. I shut the door behind me and let the silence swallow me whole.
My bed still smells like the ocean. Or maybe that’s just me. My legs ache from walking and my throat is dry, but I don’t bother getting water. I just kick off my shoes, pull the sheets over my head, and sink into the mattress like it might take me somewhere else.
I grab my phone—almost without thinking—and unlock it.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Not even a dumb meme from Pope.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to. Like maybe if I wait it out, the universe will send one push notification that proves I didn’t just fuck everything up. But nothing lights up. Nothing dings.
Fine.
If they wanna ignore me, I’ll ignore them right back.
I toss my phone face-down on the floor and bury myself deeper into the blankets. My chest feels tight and weird and empty all at once. Like I should cry, but my body’s too tired for that. I’m just… done. With the day. With them. With pretending like I belong somewhere I clearly don’t.
So I close my eyes, and let the darkness take me.
Let them figure it out without me for once.
Let them miss me.
Or not.
Whatever.
…
It’s been a week. A whole week since that saturday. Since the stupid fight. Since I said what I said and walked out. And none of them have reached out. Not JJ. Not Pope. Not even fucking John B.
And I haven’t either.
Even when I’ve wanted to.
Even when I opened our group chat more than once, typing half a sentence just to delete it.
I keep thinking—I can’t believe one small fight caused this. But then again, maybe it wasn’t small. Maybe they’re thinking I started it. Maybe in their heads I’ve been pulling away for a while now. Maybe they’re not wrong. I have been.
So every time I think about texting them, I give myself the same excuse.
Maybe it’s for the better.
Maybe this is the clean break I needed.
And just like that, a whole week goes by.
No calls.
No messages.
No friends.
At school, it’s like my hair walked in before I did.
I barely took my hoodie off and suddenly guys were trying to talk to me, ask if I needed help carrying my bag, telling me I looked “different” and “really pretty today.”
It made my skin crawl.
I shut it all down—fast.
Eyes forward. Headphones in. Mouth shut.
I built the wall before they could even touch the first brick.
And maybe that’s why I don’t have friends.
Maybe I don’t want them.
Because to me, they all look the same. Sound the same.
Like everyone I ever hated back home, but dressed up in new clothes and shinier teeth.
Same shitty hearts.
Same rotten core.
So I stay invisible.
I eat lunch in the library.
Sit by the window with a book I’ve already read twice.
Let time pass slowly, page by page.
And honestly… I don’t mind it.
Being alone means no one expects anything from me.
No fake smiles. No exhausting conversations.
Just space.
Enough space to maybe figure out who the hell I’m going to be now.
I’ve run into Sarah a couple of times.
She talks to me sometimes—small stuff.
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?”
“What book are you reading now?”
Never more than that.
And I like it that way.
But Rafe?
Rafe doesn’t know how to shut up.
On Tuesday I think, I was walking out of Chem when I heard his voice behind me.
“So. You fix things with your little Scooby-Doo gang yet?”
I didn't even turn around.
Just kept walking, eyes ahead.
“You don’t have anything else to do?” I shooted back.
He catches up to walk beside me. Too close.
Like always.
“That’s a no then,” he smirks.
I don’t respond.
He doesn’t deserve one.
But I still feel his eyes on me even as I walk away.
Fucker.
And then there’s these girls, this one group—I don’t even know their names, and I don’t care to—but they always find something to whisper when I walk by. A laugh. A fake cough. A comment. I never did anything to them. Maybe they think I’m full of myself. Maybe it’s jealousy. Or maybe I just make people uncomfortable. I used to feel untouchable with my friends. Now I feel like everyone has a hand on me, tugging, pushing, picking me apart. I keep trying to act like it doesn’t bother me. Like I’m still that girl who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. But the truth is—I don’t feel like her. I don’t feel like anyone at all. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be this week, let alone next.
—
The day starts fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.
It’s sunny, but not the kind that makes you want to go outside. It’s the kind of sun that feels fake—like it’s trying too hard. Like someone painted it on the sky just to pretend everything’s okay. I wake up late. No texts. No plans. No nothing. But Sundays are family days, and that means I have to sit there and pretend like this house is something I’m still part of.
I try to keep it cool. I really do. I don’t want to start anything, and I can tell my mom is in one of those moods where she’s being... nice. Her version of nice, anyway. She made waffles. Like I’m ten or something. My dad is already dressed like he’s going to golf, even though I’m pretty sure he’s not. It’s his way of keeping the peace: fake routines, polite smiles, and silence where opinions should be.
We sit down. We eat. I nod. They talk. Nothing feels real.
Then she brings it up again.
“Isn’t it nice?” she says, slicing her waffle so precisely it’s surgical. “The people you’re spending time with now. From good families. I think it’s good for you, Kiara. Better than those others.”
I look up. My fork freezes mid-air.
“Those others?”
“You know what I mean,” she shrugs. “You don’t see them anymore. And that’s okay. You’re growing. Maturing. You don’t need to be dragged down by kids who don’t come from... well. You know.”
My throat tightens. “They’re my friends.”
“Were,” she corrects me, eyes still on her plate.
“Right. Because now I’m supposed to be grateful I’m finally around people like us, huh?”
Mike clears his throat. “Let’s not—”
“No, let’s,” I cut in. “Let’s talk about it. About how I’m apparently better now. Now that I don’t talk to my friends. Now that I’m in your stupid school, wearing your stupid clothes, playing your stupid game.”
“You don’t have to be so dramatic—”
“You don’t have to be so fake.” My voice breaks a little, and I hate it.
She sets her knife down. That sound is louder than it should be. “I’m trying to help you.”
“No, you’re trying to turn me into someone I’m not.”
“And who are you, Kiara?” she asks, voice sharper now. “Because I don’t see her anymore. All I see is attitude and sarcasm and some girl who walks around this house like we’re all enemies.”
Mike tries again. “Maybe we just need to calm down and—”
“Don’t you dare act like you’re on my side,” I snap. “You just sit there and nod whenever she talks. Like I’m the problem.”
“I didn’t say that,” he says quietly. But it’s too late. The words already stabbed their way out of me.
My mom stands. “I’m done. I won’t sit here and be disrespected in my own home.”
I stand too. “Yeah, because God forbid anyone disrespects you . You don’t care what I feel. You care that I’m performing properly for your little world.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is? You don’t even like me, Mom.”
She pauses.
There’s a silence. A beat too long.
And that’s when I know she won’t say no.
She just exhales. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being honest .”
“No, you’re being spoiled. And ungrateful.”
It lands like a slap.
Spoiled.
Ungrateful.
“You think I wanted this? Any of this? You think I asked to feel completely alone in a place you forced me into?”
Her voice is low but firm. “No one forced you to stop talking to them. That was you . You say you fought,” she snaps, “but I don’t see any proof. All I see is a girl sulking around this house, refusing to try. Maybe it’s time to accept that you’re here now. For the year. And if you hate it so much, maybe start by not acting like you’re the plague.”
I blink. Did she really just—
She keeps going. “Honestly, I don’t know what you want. You push everyone away, and then complain that no one understands you.”
“Because no one does!”
“Maybe you don’t let them.”
That’s it. She’s out the door before I can reply. She doesn’t even slam it this time. She just disappears.
And I just stand there, in the middle of the kitchen, shaking.
I walk up the stairs slowly. My throat burning. My chest tight.
Once my bedroom door is shut, the tears come fast. Angry, bitter, embarrassed tears. The kind you hate yourself for. The kind that make you feel weak. Like a little kid again. I bury my face in the pillow and let it all come out, because there’s nowhere else to put it.
There’s no one to text. No one who’ll check in. No one who’ll even notice.
I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.
And worse?
I don’t even know who I was.
Chapter 3: The Version of Me She Wants
Summary:
Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains a scene that may be distressing for some readers, involving a moment of unwanted physical advance and emotional discomfort. While it is not an explicit or graphic scene, it may still be upsetting.
Please take care while reading.
...The pogues turn to walk. Pass me. JJ stops in front of me, doesn’t blink. His voice is dead cold.
“You’re dead to us.”
I flinch.
Rafe steps forward, casually. “Keep walking, loser. She’s one of us now.”
That’s when JJ turns.
And without warning—he swings. A sharp punch straight to Rafe’s jaw.
Notes:
This chapter is dramatic. Over the top. Intensely teenager. And that’s the whole point.
It’s one of those nights where everything feels like too much and still, somehow, more keeps happening. Kiara is not just tired—she’s emotionally spiraling. It's not just bad timing, it’s cosmic-level everything colliding at once. All the internal chaos she’s been dragging around? It finally explodes. Out loud. In public. In her body. It’s messy and heightened and a little novela, and that's exactly what it’s meant to be.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometimes her words echo louder than my own thoughts.
“ All I see is a girl sulking around this house, refusing to try. Maybe it’s time to accept that you’re here now. For the year .”
I hear it when I brush my teeth. When I tie my shoes. When I walk into class and smile at someone I don’t care about. I do try.
Even if it doesn’t look like it.
Because I can’t forget what she said.
And because she’s been ignoring me every day since.
Like I don’t exist. Like I disgust her.
So I do what she wants. I brush my hair. I sit with the girls she’d be proud of. I wear the things she buys for me now without rolling my eyes or complaining they’re basic.
Even if it makes me feel like I’m not even in my own skin.
I've been here for almost a month.
I try to sit still in my skin, in this life that doesn’t feel like mine. I try to pretend I belong. I let my mom believe that the straight hair changed something other than my reflection.
Sometimes people talk to me. Not a lot. Just enough. Girls invite me to sit with them. I do, once or twice. It’s not connection. It’s noise.
I smile through it anyway. For my mom.
Because the truth is, our dynamic’s always been broken. She talks, I flinch. She plans, I retreat. We orbit the same house like planets with conflicting gravity, pulled together and repelled all at once.
She tries, I guess. That’s what makes it worse.
I know she wants to help. I know that in her own twisted way, she thinks she’s saving me. From the same kind of life she had.
She thinks approval is love. She thinks being strong means being polite. But most of all—she thinks she knows me.
She doesn’t.
And I think, deep down, she knows that too. That’s probably why we hate each other in the softest, slowest way possible. With eye rolls and silences and forced brunches that feel like job interviews. I think if she were my age, we’d be enemies. I think she wouldn’t like me either.
And it hurts, knowing that the person who raised you probably wouldn’t choose you.
Still, I try.
And that’s why, when a random Kook from my grade—well, a year above mine, actually—who had talked to me a few times before, DM’d me to invite me to some Kook party, I didn’t say no.
I felt the pressure to say yes, even if deep down, I wasn’t really planning on going. I thought maybe I’d bail last minute and it wouldn’t matter.
But my mom…
Somehow, she found out.
I’m guessing the girl who invited me must’ve told her mom, and then it just floated through whatever Kook-mom grapevine exists until it landed right in my mom’s hands. And suddenly, after weeks of barely acknowledging me, she was excited again. She came into my room, holding her phone, smiling like she used to before everything changed.
“You got invited?” she said, as if that was some kind of sign.
Like the universe had personally handed her proof that I was still salvageable.
She told me I should go. That I’d make friends. That this meant something.
I didn’t know what to say. I just… nodded. I couldn’t tell her no.
Not when she was finally looking at me like that again. Not when I had spent so much time trying to prove I didn’t care if she didn’t.
So I said yes.
I let her have this one.
If she’s trying… then maybe I have to keep trying, too.
I told her, kind of hesitantly, that I didn’t even have anyone to go with.
But of course, she had an answer ready for that. “Those girls you mentioned? From school? The ones you sit with sometimes? I’m sure they’ll be there.”
She said I didn’t have to stay long. That I could just show up, say hi, and come back home.
But the way she said it… it sounded like she was saying:
just be normal for one night. Just try.
So I will.
Even if it feels stupid.
Even if I know the second I walk into that party, I’ll regret it.
I’m gonna try.
Because if she still sees a version of me that’s worth fighting for—then maybe I can squint and see it, too.
I find out the party starts at nine. Not that it matters—Kelce is throwing it, apparently. Which… yeah, that makes sense. He’s been kind of flirty lately. Not that I care. I said yes, didn’t I?
And it’s not like I dislike him. It’s just... Kelce being the host means one inevitable thing: I’ll definitely have to see my favorite sibling duo.
I’m tying up my apron, tucking the knot at my back like I’ve done this a hundred times before. Mom asked me to help with the Saturday dinner rush—said she’d throw me some cash for it too. And honestly, I’m not above saying yes to easy money, especially when it comes from something I don’t completely hate.
There’s something oddly grounding about being here. The low hum of conversation, the hiss from the kitchen, the scent of garlic and olive oil baked into the walls—it wraps around you, sticks to your clothes, your skin. It’s not glamorous, but it’s familiar. Comfortable, even.
I watch my parents move behind the counter like it’s a language only they speak. Every toss of the pan, every nod and shift of weight feels rehearsed. Like they know the rhythm by heart. It makes me feel… tethered, I guess.
I’m restocking napkins at one of the front tables when the bell over the door gives that quick, tinny chime. I don’t look up right away. Not until I hear the voice.
“Hey,” John B says, leaning way too comfortably against the booth’s wooden frame like he owns the place.
I blink, caught off guard. “What the hell,” I mutter under my breath, but it’s not mean. More like... confused.
We haven’t talked since.. And yet he just stands there like this is normal.
“Your mom said you were out here,” he says, and nods toward the kitchen. “Told me I could wait.” Anna being nice with John B, what a surprise.
“Didn’t know you were even allowed to talk to me,” I shoot back, folding the napkins slower now, more focused on getting the creases perfect than looking at him.
He shrugs. “Figured someone had to grow a pair.”
That gets a tiny laugh out of me.
There’s a silence after that. But not the bad kind.
Then he goes, “They miss you, you know.”
I freeze. Just a second. But it’s enough.
“Who?” I ask, though I already know.
He raises his brows. “C’mon. JJ. Pope. You know who.”
I press my tongue to the back of my teeth. “Right. They just haven’t said anything. That kind of missing.”
“They’re idiots,” he says simply, pulling out the seat across from me and dropping into it. “But you know how they are. Pope’s too proud, and JJ’s... JJ.”
That makes me smile. A tired one.
“And you?” I ask. “You just decided you weren’t gonna be proud anymore?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I just missed you more than I cared about being right.”
I stare at the stack of menus again. The top one’s still damp from my hoodie. “I didn’t think any of you would come around.”
“Well, maybe you pissed us off less than we pissed you off,” he offers.
Another laugh. This one sticks.
Silence stretches again, not uncomfortable but not easy either. Then he goes, “It would be kinda cool if we were all friends again.”
I glance at him. “You mean, like a peace treaty?”
He grins. “Something like that. And, like, maybe you could show up at the Château tonight?”
My heart does that annoying little stutter thing.
“I can’t,” I say. Too fast. Too defensive.
“Why not?” he asks, brow raised.
“I’ve got dinner with my mom. She’s been kinda… on me lately.”
He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t.
“It’s JJ’s idea,” he adds, as if that’s supposed to change my mind. “He wants you there, Pope too. I mean, not that they’ll say it, but… they do.”
I keep my eyes on the water.
“It’d mean a lot if you came,” he says. “You don’t wanna keep making this harder than it has to be. Come on, Kie. This whole thing is dumb. We’re the Pogues. We roast the Kooks, drink cheap beer, and laugh too loud. That’s our thing. I miss that. I miss you in that.”
I force a small smile. “I’ll try,” I lie.
He doesn’t call me out on it. But the look he gives me says he knows.
And I hate how that makes me feel.
He opens his arms without asking, and I step into them before I can think too hard about it. It’s instinct. Muscle memory. Like hugging a part of yourself you forgot was missing.
“I missed you,” he says against my hair.
“I missed you too,” I say, and I mean it. More than I thought I would.
When we pull back, he’s still smiling. “Come tonight.”
I nod, soft. “I’ll try, I promise.”
He gives me one last squeeze, warm and quick. “I hope I see you soon.”
The second he walks out, the weight hits. That familiar twist in my chest like I’ve done something wrong. Because I have. Not in the catastrophic, set-something-on-fire way—but in the quiet, disappointing way. I could’ve told him the truth. Could’ve canceled on Kelce, could’ve argued with my mom like always, stormed out, slammed a door. I’ve done it a hundred times. But instead, I lied. To John B. And basically to all of them. The only people I’ve ever truly felt like I belonged with—if I even still do. And for what? A party full of people I’ve never liked, who’ve never liked me, the same people I spent years rejecting.
But I made my choice.
So I breathe, I blink, and I keep moving.
It’s almost time.
I check my phone again even though I know damn well it’s too early to leave. No one in their right mind shows up to a party right when it starts—unless you want to help set up or sit around awkwardly while the music hasn’t even kicked in yet. My sweet spot is 9:40. That way, there’s already a vibe going, people are loose, but I’m not fashionably late to the point of looking like I was trying.
My mom’s more excited than I am, obviously. She’s been hovering around since dinner, like I’m going to prom or something. She knocks once and then walks into my room without waiting, holding two tops in her hands like I asked for her opinion.
“Don’t drink too much, okay?” she starts, even though I haven’t even put the damn outfit on yet. “But if you do have to drink something, I’m not gonna pretend you won’t—I just want you to be cautious. Eat something first. Stay hydrated. Don’t take a drink from anyone unless you saw them pour it. And if you ever wanna leave early, I’ll come get you. Just text me, alright? I don’t care the time.”
I nod and smile a little. “Thanks, Mom.”
She helps me get ready—not that I need it, but I let her because I know she likes it. And because, deep down, it’s kinda nice. We bicker a little about my outfit. She tries to push the idea of a dress on me, something floral and “youthful,” and I give her a look like, Have we met?
In the end, we compromise. Sort of.
I pick out a pair of black fitted shorts—not summer shorts, but the sleek kind, the kind you’d wear out when you actually want people to notice your legs. Not too short, just enough. I pair them with a black top that hugs in the right places and dips low enough to be interesting but not desperate. There’s something about the neckline that makes my collarbone pop, and the fabric feels soft and kind of expensive—even though I got it on sale last month and forgot it existed.
My mom tries to veto my shoes. She wants me in heels. I roll my eyes. No way.
“You are not wearing sneakers,” she says for the third time.
“I’m not,” I say back, pulling out my chunky black boots. “See? Compromise.”
She gives me a once-over, then softens. “Okay. You look beautiful, Kiara.”
I glance at myself in the mirror. I’ve left my hair down. There’s a little makeup, not too much, because I can’t be bothered and also because I hate the feeling of foundation.
And… yeah. I kind of like what I see.
Which pisses me off a little, because I don’t want to care. But here I am, liking it anyway.
I grab my phone, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head down the stairs where my mom’s already waiting, car keys in hand.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod. “Let’s go.”
Mom drops me off a couple houses down. She doesn't ask questions—just tells me to text her if I need a ride and to please be smart. Then she drives off, no dramatics. I wait a few seconds before walking up the driveway, trying to keep my breath steady, like I'm not already regretting this.
The music’s bumping. Like, really bumping. I can feel it in my ribs before I even get through the door. There’s already a decent crowd inside—enough people that I’m not immediately the center of attention, but not enough that I can slip by unnoticed.
I barely make it past the entryway before Kelce clocks me from across the room. His smile stretches way too wide, like he's been waiting for me or something. He walks up, arms open but doesn't go in for a hug, thank God.
“Welcome, Kiara,” he says, eyes scanning me in a way I don’t love. “Glad you came. Drinks are over there, snacks too, make yourself at home.” Then, after a beat, he leans in just a little. “Hope you have fun tonight.”
There’s something in the way he says fun that makes my skin itch, but I just nod and mumble a thank you. He’s already turning away before I can process it, saying something about having to fix the lights in the backyard or some other host crap.
I take a breath and scan the room. I don’t know most of the people here—like, at all. Just a blur of faces I’ve seen in hallways or maybe once at a game. But then I spot a small cluster of girls near the kitchen—girls I’ve sat with sometimes, just like my mom said. We’re not friends, not really, but they’re not mean. They laugh too loud and talk too fast, but they’ve never made me feel like I didn’t belong. And tonight, that’s more than enough.
I make my way over slowly, trying not to overthink every step. Just… breathe. Smile. Try not to look like you want to disappear.
I spot the girls I sorta know near one of the couches, and I start making my way there when I hear it.
"Wow. First kook party and already becoming what you hate."
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
But of course I do. Slowly. Because ignoring him would be too easy—and I’m not built for easy.
Rafe’s leaning against the wall like he owns the place, drink in hand, that same smug smirk on his face like he just caught me doing something shameful.
"Didn’t know you kept track of my every move," I say, cocking my head, pretending he’s just another guy at another party I don’t care about. "You must be really bored."
He takes a step closer. Just one. It’s enough.
"Just surprised," he says, eyes dragging down and back up, deliberate. "You look good."
I blink. I shouldn’t react. I won’t.
"So do liars and politicians. Doesn’t mean I like them," I mutter before stepping away from him, not waiting for a comeback. I don’t even glance over my shoulder. I just keep walking like his words didn’t catch fire under my skin.
But they did. Of course they did.
The girls glance my way, then one of them waves me over.
"Hey! Didn’t know you were coming tonight," one of them says, her smile easy.
"You look really cute," the other adds, giving my outfit a quick once-over.
I smile, a little caught off guard. "Thanks. You guys too."
They shift slightly to make space, like they actually want me there, and I take it — mostly because I don’t feel like standing alone again.
"Have you seen Rafe Cameron around?" one of them asks, casually but not really casually.
I snort softly. "Don’t we all see him, one way or another?"
They laugh.
"Ugh, I don’t know why, but I’ve always kinda liked him," the girl next to me admits, twirling a piece of her hair. "Like, he’s so intense? It’s annoying but also..."
"Hot?" the other finishes, and they both giggle.
I roll my eyes, but it’s half-playful. "Sure. Until he opens his mouth."
That makes them laugh harder.
We end up talking about the party — the music, the people, the drinks. Then it shifts to other guys, ones they’re into or ones who’ve hit them up lately.
And... I don’t know. I’m not used to this kind of girl talk, not since middle school maybe, but something about it feels light. Harmless.
I lean back a little, sipping my drink.
Okay, fine. I’m not having a bad time.
They’re not unbearable. Actually... they’re kind of nice.
By now it’s around ten-thirty, maybe closer to eleven. I’ve been with the girls for a while and, honestly? I’m having fun. Real, actual fun. Nothing deep — just laughing, making dumb comments, rating outfits, pointing out guys who look like they peaked in eighth grade. That kind of thing.
It’s weird. I can’t remember the last time I let myself just… chill like this. No edge. No weight pressing on my chest. Just music, warm air, and girls who are a little tipsy and a lot entertaining.
Somewhere in the mix, I spot Sarah walking in, her hair down and glossy, wearing a short white dress and her usual leather jacket. She looks good — confident and already surrounded by people saying hi.
I break away for a second and catch her before someone else pulls her in.
“Hey,” I say, nudging her arm lightly. “You look really pretty.”
She smiles, eyes scanning me quickly, like she’s checking that I’m okay. “You too. I’m glad you came.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I reply, and I mean it.
We don’t say more. Someone calls her name and she floats off into the crowd, and I head back to where the girls are, mid-discussion about a guy who apparently cheated on his girlfriend and his situationship at the same party last month.
It’s ridiculous. And kind of addictive.
But eventually, they get up to find a group of guys near the firepit — guys I don’t feel like talking to. Something about their energy feels... loud. So I tell them I’ll catch up and slip away toward the drink table.
I’m not drunk. Not even close. Just... loose. A little warm in the chest. Light on my feet. I like the feeling. I’m pacing myself, like I promised myself I would. I pour another small cup — not even half — and swirl it around before taking a sip.
I let the music settle in again, lean back against the edge of the table, and breathe.
I’m halfway through sipping whatever clear crap some Kook handed me when I hear it.
A laugh. Familiar. Stupid. Loud.
And for a second, my stomach drops because that sound is muscle memory. It’s home .
I freeze. Turn my head.
No way.
But there they are. JJ, Pope, and John B, all hunched behind the bar like it’s summer all over again, like we’re still sneaking into country clubs and stealing rosé just to see if we can.
JJ’s got two bottles under his arm—one in each hand—like he's in a damn action movie. Pope’s glancing around nervously, clearly not loving this plan, and John B is ducked behind the counter, mouthing go, go, go .
They haven’t seen me yet.
I step back behind a hedge of half-drunken girls and keep watching, heart hammering. My head's spinning. What the hell are they doing here?
We used to do this kind of stuff. We used to think it was funny. And stupid. And kind of thrilling.
But seeing them now? At this party? It’s like watching ghosts try to crawl back into my life.
JJ pops up for a second, scanning the crowd—and that’s when his eyes land on me.
He freezes. Mid-step. His grip tightens on the bottles. John B follows his gaze and I watch his jaw tighten.
Shit.
They all see me now.
JJ’s entire body tenses. Pope straightens up, arms crossed. John B’s jaw locks like he’s trying not to say something too fast, but it’s obvious the words are burning his tongue.
I try to say something—anything—but they beat me to it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” JJ says. His voice isn’t just loud—it’s sharp. Mean.
“You said you were with your mom,” John B says, almost laughing. But it’s not funny. “A dinner , Kiara? That’s what you told me.”
“John B—”
“No. Don’t. Don’t even try to spin it.”
My stomach clenches. A couple people turn their heads. Music's still going, but it's like it's underwater now.
JJ steps forward. “You lied to us. All of us. For this ?”
He gestures behind me. I don’t turn to see who’s watching.
“You didn’t even try,” he spits. “You just dropped us.”
“That’s not true,” I say, but my voice is small. I hate how it sounds. “I tried.”
Pope’s the one who says it next. Quiet, but loud enough. “You bailed.”
And then JJ again. “You’re ashamed of us. That’s what it is, right? You wanna play pretend now? Get your hair straight, put on that dress and act like we don’t fucking exist?”
“Don’t do that,” I snap. “Don’t talk about me like that.”
“Why not?” John B says, voice raised now. “You’ve been doing whatever you want, lying to us for weeks, and suddenly we’re the bad guys?”
“I didn’t mean to lie,” I try, but I already know how weak it sounds. “I didn’t—It wasn’t like that.”
“You think we’re stupid?” John B’s face is red.
“That’s not fair—”
“What’s not fair,” JJ cuts me off, “is we were ready to forgive you. Pope said to give you space. John B said to wait. I said maybe you just needed time. But this? This isn’t time , Kie. This is you choosing.”
More eyes now. I feel them. On me. On them.
My throat’s dry. “You don’t understand—”
“Try us,” Pope says, but it doesn’t sound hopeful. It sounds like he already knows I won’t.
But I try anyway.
“You guys never let me talk. Every time I tried, it was like—like I couldn’t breathe. I needed space and you took it personal.”
“That’s rich,” JJ mutters. “You needed space so you ran to them ? Do you even hear yourself?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple,” John B says. “Tell us who you are now. ‘Cause we sure as hell don’t recognize this version of you.”
“You’ve changed,” John B adds. “I don’t even know who the hell you are anymore.”
- “Now you're just one of them. Hanging out with dudes who would’ve spat on us a year ago.”
I try to step closer, but Pope holds out his hand like I’m contagious.
I want to scream. I want to shake them. Make them listen. Because yeah, maybe I lied, but they left me too. This feels a little too dramatic, and I don't want to play this part anymore.
“You guys don’t even know the full story—”
“We know enough,” JJ snaps.
A silence falls for a second too long. Then someone nearby mutters, “Damn, y’all got some drama going on.”
I flinch.
“Is this really happening at our party?” another guy says. I think he’s in my physics class. He’s already holding his phone.
I want to disappear.
JJ looks like he’s about to keep going, but I throw my hands up. “You know what? Fine. I fucked up. I get it. But you guys don’t even give me a chance to explain. You just assume the worst.”
“Because that’s what you gave us,” John B fires back.
I snap.
“Fuck off,” I bark, spinning toward him.
He lifts his hands. “Just saying. Drama queen showed up in her little ‘I’m better than y’all’ dress and now she’s crying?”
That’s when I feel it. The switch flip. The heat in my cheeks. My throat burns.
I turn back to JJ, John B, and Pope.
“You know what?” I say, quieter now, dead serious. “Fuck all of you.”
I go quiet. Too quiet.
And then it happens—someone near the bar, a guy I don’t even know, leans closer and asks too loud:
“Hey, Kie—are those your friends? Are they bothering you?”
I pause.
They’re all looking at me.
John B. Pope. JJ.
Every word burns behind my teeth. Every second lasts a year.
And I say it.
I say the thing that will make sure this doesn’t just hurt—it kills.
“I don’t know them. And they are trying to steal.”
JJ’s face goes blank. Pope blinks like I slapped him. John B’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
And for the first time in my life, I think I might’ve gone too far.
Way too far.
But I stand there anyway.
Back straight.
Chin high.
Pretending I don’t feel my heart break in my chest.
The guy beside me—tall, wide shoulders—looks between me and the pogues. Then back at me.
“Yo,” he says, stepping forward, calm but loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “If they’re not with you, then they’re not with anyone. You three—drop the bottles and get the fuck out. Don’t make this a thing.”
Pope’s blinking like he doesn’t even believe what’s happening. John B opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something, but JJ beats him to it.
“You serious right now?” he says, voice low, furious, his jaw clenched. “Kie, are you fucking serious?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s closed.
The guy raises a hand. “Now. Bottles where you found them. You’re lucky we don’t call the cops.”
Other kooks are gathering—some I don’t even recognize, but they’ve clearly heard the commotion. This shit’s already spread. They’re looking at the pogues like they’re dirt. Trash. Intruders.
JJ finally drops the bottle in his hand. It clinks against the others.
From the porch, Rafe strolls down, bottle dangling from his fingers like it weighs nothing.
Kelce and Topper are right behind him, expression amused, eyes sharp. “Better run, pogues,” Topper says, mock-friendly. “Before we decide to teach you what happens when you fuck around where you’re not welcome.”
Rafe stops next to me. Looks straight at JJ. “Only reason you’re leaving here with your face intact is ‘cause I’m feeling generous tonight.”
“You’re lucky we don’t stomp your ass out,” Kelce adds, voice low but threatening, a quiet smile on his lips. “You’re in my fucking house, man. You stealing from me, pogue?”
No one answers.
The pogues turn to walk. Pass me. JJ stops in front of me, doesn’t blink. His voice is dead cold.
“You’re dead to us.”
I flinch.
Rafe steps forward, casually. “Keep walking, loser. She’s one of us now.”
That’s when JJ turns.
And without warning—he swings. A sharp punch straight to Rafe’s jaw.
There’s a collective gasp. I freeze.
Rafe stumbles back half a step, more surprised than hurt. Then Kelce is lunging forward with a shout and Pope grabs JJ by the arm.
“Run!” John B yells, and just like that—they bolt.
The pogues sprint across the yard, shoving past people, ducking under the porch light and disappearing into the dark.
I don’t move. I just stand there. Numb.
Rafe wipes his mouth, staring after them.
“They’ve got some fucking nerve,” Topper mutters, breathing heavy.
But Rafe doesn’t chase them. Doesn’t yell.
He just turns his eyes back to me.
And smirks.
I’m still breathing fast when I walk away from the crowd, my ears ringing and my heart somewhere in my throat. She makes her way through the house, scanning the crowd—and that’s when she sees them. Her not friends.
“There you are!” one of them says, wide-eyed.
“I’m kinda tired,” she says softly. “Might head out.”
“Nooo, come on,” one of them whines. “You can’t leave now!”
She pauses. A beat. Then another.
And just like that, something shifts.
She thinks about the way JJ looked at her. About Pope’s face when he dropped the bottle. About John B turning away. About the emptiness that’s been clawing at her chest all night. About the way John B didn’t let her explain herself.
And she thinks… Fuck it.
“Okay,” she says finally, exhaling. “Let’s do shots.”
The girls cheer and grab her by the hand, dragging her toward the kitchen counter where someone’s lining up little plastic cups like ammunition.
Kiara lifts one, tilts her head back, and swallows the burn.
She doesn’t feel better. Not really.
But at least she feels something .
I don't know when the night turned into this.
I’m so drunk I can barely feel my face. Not in the cute, spinning-world, I’m-having-fun way. It’s heavier than that. It’s like everything is stuck in molasses—my thoughts, my limbs, my breath. My arms feel floaty and heavy all at once. And the lights—God, the lights. They're sharp. Like they're cutting through my eyes, slicing right into the front of my skull.
I can’t remember where the girls went. I know they were here. I know I wasn’t alone when we walked in. But at some point, they just... melted into the noise. I don’t remember when it happened. Just that I looked up, and they weren’t there. I should care more, but I don’t. Or maybe I do and I’m just too drunk to feel it right.
I’m outside again. Somewhere between the porch and the edge of the party. There's less noise here. Just the dull thump of bass echoing through the floorboards. I sit down for a second, or maybe longer. Then this guy—random, like totally random—sits next to me. I don't even catch his name. Maybe he says it. Maybe I nod.
He’s cute. Or my eyes are playing tricks on me. He has this slow kind of smile, the kind that makes you feel like you're missing out on the joke. And I laugh too loud at something he says. Or maybe I say something and he laughs. The details are blurry. But we talk. Not long. Just long enough for it to feel like... okay. Harmless.
When he leans in to kiss me, I let him.
There’s a taste of beer and something sweet on his tongue, and I kiss him back even though something in my chest feels off. He doesn’t grab at me. Not at first. It’s slow. He cups my jaw, brushes my hair back behind my ear like he’s done this before. Like he’s good at it.
And I don’t stop him when he says, “You wanna go somewhere quieter?”
I don’t say yes, not out loud. But I nod. I think I nod. Or maybe I just stand up, and he takes it as a yes. My body follows before my brain has time to catch up.
We end up on this little balcony on the second floor. There’s a couch—more like an old patio loveseat, with one cushion missing and the other half-torn. No one’s around. The music’s a dull hum now, far enough to almost pretend it’s not there.
He sits first, pulls me gently onto his lap. I laugh, tipsy and messy and warm. It’s easier not to think too much. So I kiss him again.
His hands slide up my thighs, slow at first. Testing. Waiting. He pulls me closer and kisses down my neck, and it feels good in the way things feel when you’re trying not to remember how much you hate yourself.
Then his hand slips under my skirt.
And it’s fast—like a switch flips. Like he was pretending to be patient but couldn’t hold it anymore.
I freeze.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, cold stillness in my spine.
I move his hand. Gently. A little laugh.
“Not right now,” I mumble, voice thick.
He leans back. Stares. Smiles like he didn’t hear me.
Then he tries again.
I grab his wrist.
“I said no.”
Still soft. Still trying to be polite.
He leans in again, like it’s a game. Like I’m playing hard to get. I shove him harder this time. My voice cuts through the night air, sharper now.
“What the fuck are you doing? I said no.”
His eyes narrow, and suddenly all that fake sweetness drops.
“Chill the fuck out,” he snaps, backing off like I did something wrong. “I wasn’t trying to rape you, Jesus.”
My stomach twists.
He stands up, muttering, “You’re not even that hot.”
And then he walks away. Just like that. Leaves me there—drunk, humiliated, half-shaking, alone.
I stay seated.
Can’t cry. Not here. Not for this.
I just stare at the torn cushion beneath me and wish I could unzip my skin and climb out of it.
I just need to get out. Out. Now.
I can't breathe.
I’m already out of the house—I don’t remember walking, but I’m outside. I can feel the cold air on my face, and it doesn't help. It’s too loud. Too many people. I don't know if I’m trembling from the alcohol or from the dread that’s been sitting on my chest all night.
My heart's racing like it wants to escape my body, and my hands won’t stop shaking. Everything’s spinning—not just the alcohol, not just the music or the lights— me . My whole body is pulsing with this tight, awful panic. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I have to go. I need to get away from everything. From JJ’s face. From Pope’s silence. From John B acting like he doesn’t know me.
The pressure in my throat is unbearable. I want to scream, but nothing comes out. My vision is closing in, and I swear I can hear my heartbeat louder than the music. Fuck. Fuck .
Then I hear his voice.
"Jesus, you're really making an entrance tonight, huh?"
Rafe.
I freeze for half a second before I turn. He’s leaning against one of the columns like he’s been watching me fall apart this whole time. There’s that damn smirk on his face. Of course he’s smirking.
I grit my teeth. “Don’t.”
“What?” He shrugs, pushing off the pillar and walking toward me, slow like he’s got nowhere better to be. “Not allowed to talk to the main act? You’ve got the whole house whispering.”
“I swear to God, Rafe, not tonight.”
“You sure? Because you look like you’re seconds away from crawling into a bush and crying.”
I spin around to walk away, but he catches up without trying. I don’t want to see him. I can’t see him right now. But of course he’s here. Of course.
“Where the hell are you even going?” he asks behind me.
“Home.”
“Alone?” he scoffs. “You’re drunk off your ass and shaking like a leaf. Yeah, that sounds like a solid plan.”
“I don’t need you to babysit me, thanks.”
He gets in front of me before I can step off the curb. I stop short, almost stumbling into him. His eyes are sharper than usual, but there’s still that annoying calm in his voice that makes me want to scream.
“You gonna pass out right here or wait until you're halfway down the street?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Why do you care?” I snap. “You just wanna get your kicks, right? Stand there and watch the trainwreck.”
“Oh, believe me, I’ve been watching all night. It’s been premium entertainment.” He leans in. “But maybe it stopped being funny when you almost faceplanted in front of that guy trying to feel you up.”
I flinch. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Cute. Real mature.”
I push past him, but he grabs my arm—not hard, just enough to stop me.
“You think you’re proving something out here, Kie? Being this much of a mess in front of all of them? You think they’re gonna regret it? Feel bad?”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
“Rafe—”
“No,” he says again, lower this time, and his voice isn’t teasing anymore.
He doesn’t flinch when I shove him.
“You done throwing your little tantrum?” he asks, calm like he’s not trying to piss me off on purpose.
“I’m not throwing a tantrum, I’m leaving.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Sloppy exit, though.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s new.” He steps closer, his breath mixing with mine. “You’re usually more creative than that.”
My nails dig into my palm, and my heart won’t slow down. I feel hot. My head spins and I try to blink it off, but everything around me feels too loud, too fast, like I can’t keep up with any of it.
I try to speak again but my mouth is dry. My chest tightens. The heat in my body spreads like wildfire—under my skin, in my throat, behind my eyes. My breathing’s not working.
I grip the wall. Then the railing. Then nothing.
The last thing I see is Rafe’s smirk fading, just a flash of something unreadable in his eyes.
Then it’s all black.
Notes:
I had so much fun writing this chapter. It’s messy, dramatic, full of feelings, and honestly? That’s what made it so fun. Kiara’s spinning and everything around her is spinning with her and I loved getting lost in that with her.
Thank you for reading, always.
And buckle up, because the next chapter?
It’s from Rafe’s POV. 👀🖤
Chapter 4: Someone Better Was Waiting
Summary:
I've seen this movie.
I starred in it.
it was my first year at the Kook Academy.
You know how intimidating that is?
And one of these things is obviously not like the other.
I mean, I didn't have anything in common with anyone, and just as I'm about to slit my wrists,
the queen asks me if I wanna go save baby sea turtles.
Our first day together, we walked to the beach.
We waited for the hatch, and we kept the seagulls off so that the turtles could get to the water.It was the best day of my life.
Notes:
Exploring Rafe’s POV was… a ride. The boy’s brain definitely runs on a different frequency, chaotic, twisted, but also incredibly aware. His thoughts don’t always line up with reality, but they’re real to him, and that matters. There’s more going on in there than just anger or obsession. There’s confusion, fear, longing… and the beginnings of something he hasn’t even named yet.
This chapter feels calmer than the last one because it needed to be. After a storm, there’s always that eerie stillness. The breath before the next wave. But even in the quiet, change is happening. People are shifting. Hearts are tilting toward new directions.
And as Kiara says, sometimes when something leaves, it’s only making space for something better to come.
That’s why this chapter is called:
Someone Better… Someone Better Was Waiting.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
RAFE 'S POV.
If someone had told me a couple years ago that one day I'd carry Kiara Carrera—passed out and drunk as hell—into my house like she belonged there, I’d have laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was fucking absurd.
She was always that girl. Loud. Defiant. The kind you spot in a crowd not because she wants to be seen, but because she refuses to shrink. I knew her before she knew herself. She was still in bows and ballet flats when I saw her the first time—one of those charity galas my father dragged me to, where everyone wore masks without even needing them. And there she was. Standing by the chocolate fountain like it was the most offensive thing she'd ever seen. Her mom kept trying to get her to smile, pose for pictures. Kiara wouldn’t budge. That stuck with me.
I was too old to care, technically. But even back then, I felt it—the sting. The interest. The fucking pull . She wasn’t one of us, not exactly. But she was never one of them either. Kiara became a Pogue the way people light a match and let it burn just to feel something. And that? That fascinated me.
Because who chooses that?
She did. She chose wrong.
And I hated her for it.
Not out loud, not in the way people expect. I never called her out by name. I never needed to. Whenever we ran into each other—at parties, on docks, in places neither of us should've been—I'd say one thing. One fucking thing. And she'd snap. Like clockwork. It was the easiest game I ever played. Get under her skin. Watch her squirm. I didn’t need to know her to read her.
And somewhere along the way... I got good at it. Real good. Memorized every twitch in her jaw. Every deflecting laugh. Every insult she threw at me like a grenade she hoped would actually blow. They never did. She wanted to win, and I let her think she was close.
I like that she doesn't fear me.
It makes me wonder how far I'd have to push before she does .
I’m not impulsive like they say. I'm not reckless. I'm patient. Calculated . I know when to bide my time. I know the exact moment someone’s armor starts to crack.
And Kiara—falling into my arms like that? That was the moment.
She’s a project now. Not the kind you build. The kind you unravel.
The ties that bound her to that pathetic Pogue life? They're fraying. She's not one of them anymore. She doesn’t even believe she is.
And watching her fight herself, watching her struggle between who she was and who she’s becoming—it’s better than any movie I’ve ever seen.
Actually, no. It's not a movie.
It’s a fucking masterpiece.
If someone ever heard the shit that goes on in my head, they’d probably say I’ve been obsessed with her my whole life.
They’d be wrong.
It’s not obsession. Not exactly.
It’s more like a film you watch once, by accident, and it stays burned in your brain forever. A strange, chaotic masterpiece you never asked to see but can't fucking unsee.
Kiara Carrera is a goddamn spectacle. Always has been.
And now, at this joke of a school, she’s a full-blown circus.
And I get front row tickets every single day. For free.
I don’t care about people. I use them.
I get what I need—information, pleasure, silence—and I move on. That’s the deal.
Interest, real interest, is rare. For me, it's almost extinct.
But Kiara…
Kiara always hit different.
And the worst part? I couldn’t fucking explain it if I tried.
I wasn’t surprised when she crossed over. I was waiting for it, actually. Watching.
But seeing her kiss some random nobody?
That fucked with my head.
Not because I care. I don’t care. I don’t.
But I always thought she was mine in a way that had nothing to do with reality—like a violent little idea I hadn’t yet played out. A warning. A promise.
And maybe I got used to the idea that no one else saw it.
That I was the only one who looked close enough to notice her cracks, her lies, her self-righteous little act.
The only one paying attention.
But it turns out Kiara’s the kind of girl people like to notice.
And that pissed me off more than I expected.
Of course I noticed when she left with that guy.
Didn’t make a scene or anything, but yeah—my eyes followed her. Sue me.
And when I saw her stumbling back out, looking like she could barely keep her head up, I knew I had to do something.
Not because I’m noble.
Because it would’ve fucking killed me to watch someone else step in.
She’d hate that I saw her like that. That’s the first thing I thought.
Kiara Carrera, proudest girl in the Outer Banks, half-drunk and barely standing.
So I did what any good enemy would do: I took the chance to mess with her.
To hold it over her head later.
Except she fucking passed out.
Collapsed right there like a goddamn book scene, right as I got to her.
And of course—
of course
—Sarah had to witness it.
Fucking Sarah.
Saint Sarah, always around to "save the day" and steal the credit.
Even for this.
We were both crouched beside her, and Sarah went straight into big-sister mode.
“She needs a doctor,” she said, like I wouldn’t have thought of that myself.
“No,” I snapped. “She doesn’t. She just needs to rest. Call her parents. That’s it.”
Sarah hesitated, eyes flicking from me to Kiara, but she nodded.
Fine. She’d do what I said.
For once.
I picked Kiara up, arms under her legs and back, and started walking.
She didn’t weigh much.
Not that that matters.
She was warm.
And too quiet.
Her head rested against my chest like she trusted me or something.
We walked in silence for a while, through the back trail up toward Tannyhill.
Her breath was slow. Too slow. I adjusted my grip.
Then Sarah spoke.
Cutting through the quiet like she always does.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
And her voice wasn’t judgmental, just… confused.
“You guys hate each other. Right?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Mostly because I didn’t know what the fuck to say.
“She’s not some fucking stranger,” I snap before I can stop myself. My arms tighten around Kiara without meaning to. “Also what I was supposed to do? she fell right into my arms, and I'm not a monster, Sarah.”
“You’re being nice,” Sarah says, low, like it costs her to admit it.
And for a second, I forget how much I hate her.
I don’t really hate her. Not like that. I’d never say it out loud, but the truth is, she just pisses me off. Dad always believes her. Everyone always picks her. No matter what happens, Sarah’s the victim. The good one. The bright fucking light of this family.
It didn’t used to be like that.
We were close when we were kids. We had each other’s backs. But after Mom died… it’s like I vanished. Like I lost both of them that day. She cried and everyone ran to hold her. I screamed, broke shit, and they just wanted me to shut up.
Since then, it’s like the more I broke, the more she shined.
And now she’s here, walking next to me while I carry Kiara in my arms, telling me what I’m doing is nice . Like that means anything.
Still… it stings a little less hearing it from her.
And that pisses me off even more.
By the time we get to the house, Sarah’s already ahead, talking to her parents—lying, probably. Spinning something digestible for Anna and Mike, something that doesn’t include the part where I carried a half-drunk Kiara Carrera into our picture-perfect home.
I push open Sarah’s door with my foot and lay Kiara down on her bed. She barely stirs. Just breathes deep, lashes dark against her cheeks, like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged.
The room smells like that goddamn vanilla candle Sarah always lights, and everything is lined up too neat. Too soft. I don’t belong here, but somehow, Kiara does.
One thing about Sarah—she’s too fucking nice. It’s probably what I hate the most about her. That constant need to help. To fix. To take care of everyone like the world owes her that role. And yeah, it’s admirable. I guess.
It’s something I don’t have. Never have.
Maybe she wouldn’t let just any girl sleep in her bed. Maybe she never has. But Kiara? Yeah. Sarah’s making an exception.
Maybe the Camerons have a thing for her. I hate that thought. Hate it more than I should.
Because if Sarah gets the credit for this— being the one who brought Kiara in, made space for her —it’s only gonna push them closer. Best friends, probably. Bonded by whatever sisterhood bullshit they’ll spin out of this night. And I wonder… is that really so bad?
If it means seeing her more? Keeping her close, away from the Pogues? If it means she stays in our world a little longer?
But I know Sarah. She gets scared of anything that feels too real. We all do. Camerons run from truth like it’s a goddamn wildfire. And Kiara? She is truth. Sharp and loud and unapologetically real.
So, getting drunk at that party? She’s probably gonna regret it. Not because of me, but because this is how it always ends with us. The Camerons ruin things. We touch something good and turn it into something sour.
Sarah pretends she’s so perfect, but she’s not. She wouldn’t be my sister if she was.
And Kiara—she pretends she’s all principle and pride. Morality and cause. But she’s not either.
Because me and her… we’re more alike than either of us wants to admit.
KIARA’S POV
I wake up with the taste of metal in my mouth and a dull pounding behind my eyes, like the aftermath of a storm I don’t remember weathering. The ceiling above me is wrong. Too pale. Too perfect. The sheets feel too clean, too tucked, too... Cameron. That realization alone makes my skin crawl a little. I blink hard, trying to focus. My heart skips. A few fragments of the night before come rushing in, jagged and sharp—blinding lights, a drink I didn’t finish, a guy who got too close, and then—Rafe. Rafe?
I sit up slowly, the room tilting slightly as I do. My breath comes in shallow puffs. Where the hell am I?
The door creaks open before I can make sense of any of it.
“Hey Kie!” Sarah chirps, stepping in with a glass of water and two Advils balanced on her palm like a peace offering. She’s a little too bright for the lighting. All sunshine and breezy concern, like nothing about this is strange. “You were super out of it last night,” she says as she hands me the glass. “Don’t worry—I already talked to your parents.”
I nod, confused, and take the glass. My fingers feel clumsy around it, as if they belong to someone else. Everything feels too surreal. Too fast.
“You said you like the ocean, right?” Sarah continues, like we’re just two friends on a casual morning-after. “There’s a sea turtle hatch this afternoon. Really rare. I thought you might wanna come?”
I let out a shaky breath, sinking a little deeper into the mattress. The weight of last night still clings to me like damp clothes. I can’t figure out how I even ended up here, but the effort of unraveling it is already exhausting. “Yeah,” I say finally, voice low. “Sure. Why not.”
She beams. “They hatch around three, so we’ve got time. Thought it might help clear your head.”
I glance down at the water, the ripples stilling with every second. “Thanks,” I say quietly. “For this. And for not freaking out. Or… ditching me.”
Sarah sits at the edge of the bed, her voice gentler now. “You were kind of a mess, Kie. I saw you there and—well, I didn’t bring you here by myself.”
I blink. My stomach flips.
She watches my expression carefully. “Rafe’s the one who brought you.”
That name again. It lands like a splash of cold water down my spine.
“Rafe?” I echo, brows furrowed.
I exhale sharply. My fingers tighten around the glass. “Well... shit,” I murmur, stunned. “Guess that’s the nicest thing he’s done since... ever.”
Sarah laughs—just a small, disarmed kind of sound.
“I’m not saying he’s a saint or anything,” she adds quickly, almost like she needs to defend him from me. “But maybe a thanks wouldn’t kill you. He doesn’t totally not deserve it.”
There’s a pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just... heavy.
She speaks again, softer now. “I know this is weird. And we’re still figuring stuff out. But whatever happens from here on out, Kiara—you’re not alone. Not anymore. You’ve got me. We’ve got each other now.”
My chest tightens at her words. I don’t answer right away, but I look at her. And maybe that’s enough.
She stands, brushing her palms against her shorts like she’s shaking something off. “You wanna get breakfast? Before I drag you into turtle territory?”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Dry and cracked, but real. “Yeah. Something greasy. And hot. Before I change my mind and crawl back into this bed forever.”
“Deal,” she grins, already halfway to the door.
And I sit there for just one second longer, heart still confused, throat still tight, trying to figure out how I went from almost falling apart… to being held together by people I never thought I could trust.
Sarah sets a mug down in front of me.
“Here. You looked like you needed it.”
Her voice is soft, no judgement tucked in it, just... curiosity. Maybe concern. The coffee smells like something close to grounding but my stomach still twists as I wrap my hands around the ceramic.
I don’t say thank you. Not right away. I’m still busy trying to swallow the nausea that crept in the second I opened my eyes.
Last night.
It comes back in flickers—like a busted film reel skipping scenes.
Pope’s voice, raised.
JJ pacing.
John B’s eyes not meeting mine.
Then that hollow feeling. The kind that makes your chest feel like it’s folding in on itself.
I should’ve left. I knew I should’ve. But they told me to stay. Not my friends. Just girls I kinda knew. Girls with shiny lip gloss and way too much perfume and a laugh I didn’t recognize myself in.
They said it would be fun.
Said I deserved to forget.
And for a second, I believed them. Until the room spun. Until they weren’t there. Until that guy with the beer breath leaned in too close and I couldn’t find the door fast enough.
Until I pushed him off.
And then—
Rafe.
“Kiara?”
Sarah’s voice pulls me back.
I blink. The mug’s still in my hands, warm. I haven’t taken a sip.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she says, careful, “but I— I don’t know you that well, and even I can tell that’s not you. Not like that.”
I stare at the rim of the cup. It’s chipped. Imperfect. Like me.
“I just—” I start, then stop. It feels stupid. Saying it out loud.
“I messed things up with the people I thought were always gonna be there. And then I stayed somewhere I shouldn’t have. Trusted the wrong people. Got drunk. Too drunk. And then they left. Just... vanished.”
My voice catches, and I force myself to laugh. It’s bitter.
“Some guy tried something. Nothing happened. I pushed him off.”
Sarah’s jaw tenses. She opens her mouth, like she’s about to say something—
And like a curse spoken into reality, Rafe appears.
Hair messy like he just rolled out of bed—or didn’t sleep at all. T-shirt hanging off his frame. That lazy half-smirk that drives me insane on a good day and infuriates me on a bad one.
“Morning, drunk princess,” he mutters with that signature sarcastic drawl, already making his way to the coffee pot.
I glare at him over the rim of my mug. “Don’t make me regret wanting to thank you.”
His hand pauses for half a second as he pours, just enough to register. Then he glances sideways, faintly amused. “You? Thanking me? That’s new.”
I roll my eyes but keep my voice steady. “But seriously… thanks. For last night.”
He doesn’t look at me when he answers. Just grabs his mug, takes a sip, and shrugs. “It’s nothing. Don’t feel too special.”
And with that, he disappears.
No dramatic exits. No smirk thrown over the shoulder. Just a sip of coffee and silence, like he didn’t just drop a small bomb and walk off with the fuse.
Sarah doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at me for a second.
And then, softly, “That shit that happened last night... it's disgusting. The way someone sees you vulnerable and just decides that means they can take something from you.”
I don't respond. I just look down into the dark swirl of coffee, biting the inside of my cheek.
“It sucks you had to go through that,” she adds, “but from now on... any party you go to? You’re not going alone. You’re stuck with me now.” She bumps my shoulder lightly, her tone playful. “Sorry. It’s over for you. I’m your full-time shadow.”
That makes me laugh—just a little, but it’s enough to pull me out of myself. “Oh, great,” I murmur, raising my brows. “And why, exactly, would you sign up for that kind of torture?”
She shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Because—don’t get weird about it—but I think we were meant to be friends. Like... that moment last night, something about it just felt like the universe linking two timelines that should’ve never been apart.”
I look at her, really look at her. And I don't roll my eyes or dodge it this time.
Instead I say, “You think this is fate?”
Sarah grins. “I think destiny was bored and needed new material.”
We both laugh, and this time, it feels like the ache in my ribs eases up for real. There’s something unspoken between us now, like maybe we both needed this—someone who wasn’t already part of the wreckage.
She nudges my knee with hers. “You're not alone, Kie. Not anymore.”
And for once, I believe it.
“You should call your mom.” Sarah says.
I blink, still curled up under the throw on her couch. “She’s probably freaking out,” I mumble.
“She is,” Sarah says, sipping. “I called her last night—you were out cold, so I told her you drank a little too much but that you were okay. Said you’d passed out early and were sleeping here. She was worried, but she got it. Just promised I’d make sure you called her first thing.”
“Ugh.” I bury my face in the blanket for a second before sighing and reaching for my phone. “Fine. But if she tries to lecture me—”
“She won’t,” Sarah says gently. “I think she was more scared than mad.”
I sit up and call. My voice is scratchy and low when she picks up. “Hi, Mom.”
Her relief comes through the speaker like a wave. “Kiara. Are you okay? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m okay. I just... yeah, I drank a little and fell asleep. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t feel like I could drive and—Sarah let me stay here.”
There’s a pause. I can hear her trying to process it, trying to decide whether or not she’s supposed to yell. But she doesn’t. “I’m glad you didn’t drive,” she says eventually. “But Kie, please be more careful. You never know who might take advantage of a girl who’s had too much.”
I swallow, the words catching a little in my throat. Yeah, I do know.
She adds, her tone softening: “But it makes me happy you’re friends with Sarah Cameron. She seems like a good girl.”
I glance at Sarah, who’s watching me from the kitchen with her cup pressed against her lips, pretending not to listen. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “She is.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Later. We’re going to the beach,” I answer, and I don’t say it defensively. Just… tiredly.
“Oh, that’s lovely, honey. Enjoy yourself. Just promise you’ll be home before it gets too late, okay?”
“Okay. I promise. I love you.”
“I love you too, Kiara.”
I hang up and toss my phone to the side. Sarah raises an eyebrow. “All good?”
“She thinks you’re a good girl,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
“Well,” she grins. “She’s not wrong.”
I groan.
Then her face shifts, and she walks toward me. “Listen, Kie. About last night… I’m really sorry. Like, for everything. For what happened with that creep and for what you had to deal with.”
I shake my head, trying to brush it off. “It’s not your fault.”
“No, but still. It’s disgusting. That’s so messed up.”
I nod slowly, the weight of it sinking in a little more with her words.
I hear the front door open. Sarah immediately straightens up.
“Hi, Daddy!” she calls, voice a little higher, a little brighter, and that’s when I know— this girl really loves her dad.
Ward Cameron walks into the kitchen like he owns the place. Which, I guess, he technically does. He’s in business-casual, tan slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, a coffee in hand like he’s been up for hours.
And the second his eyes land on me, he smiles—like, actually smiles.
“You must be Kiara,” he says, walking over to shake my hand. “I’ve heard good things.”
I blink. “Really?”
He chuckles. “Yes. Your parents are very respectable people. I’m glad my daughter finally has a real friend around.”
Real friend.
Okay. That one hits weirdly warm. I glance at Sarah, who just grins down at her mug.
“Thanks, Mr. Cameron.”
“Ward,” he corrects gently. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
It’s disarming. This version of Ward Cameron.
Because before this summer, he was just the guy who owned half the island and talked real smooth on TV.
But standing here now, I see the person Sarah still believes in. Or maybe wants to believe in.
I know a few things about him. Everyone does.
Ward grew up a pogue. Real dirt poor, at least that’s what they say. But he worked his way up—started his own company, charmed his way into the right rooms. Built an empire out of thin air. Married a woman everyone says was way out of his league.
But then she died. And something in the family shifted.
He changed. They all did.
People say a lot of things about Ward Cameron. Some are rumors. Some aren’t. I don’t care to sort them yet, because honestly, right now, it’s not my problem.
What is my problem is that Rafe has that same darkness in his eyes. That same… edge.
But I’m not thinking about Rafe. Not really.
Wheezie skips down the stairs in a sweatshirt two sizes too big. Sarah’s, probably. She’s cute in a chaotic, eleven-year-old kind of way, and she launches herself onto a barstool like she hasn’t slept in a week.
“Morning,” she mumbles.
“Wheezie, say hi to Kiara,” Sarah says, nudging her.
“Hi, Kiara,” Wheezie echoes with a yawn.
And then there’s Rose.
She walks in behind Ward like a perfume ad with teeth. Designer clothes. Fresh blowout. Smile sharp enough to cut glass.
She glances at me, then looks away. Doesn’t even say hello.
No surprise there.
I’ve never officially met her before, but everyone knows of Rose. The controversial second wife. The one no Cameron kid likes. The one who married into the money and never let them forget it.
She and Ward exchange a few words, quiet enough that I can’t catch them, and then she breezes out like she’s late to ruin someone’s day.
Sarah exhales. “Don’t mind her.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
We both laugh. Wheezie just munches cereal and stares blankly into space.
And for one very strange, very unexpected moment, it feels… kind of nice.
Like I could get used to this.
Which is insane.
But I don’t say that part out loud.
By the time we step out onto the beach, it’s already past midday. I don’t even know how the hours flew by like that. One second we were sitting on her bed talking about why ketchup is disgusting, and the next we were in the kitchen making popcorn and ranking every boy in school based on how likely they are to cry during The Notebook .
It’s kind of insane—how easy it was.
Like we’ve been orbiting around each other for years and just now collided.
I glance at her while we walk barefoot over the cool sand, each of us carrying a soda. She’s laughing at something dumb I said about how Ward probably owns like five private jets and uses one just for grocery runs. Her hair’s up in a messy bun and there’s this tiny smudge of eyeliner under one eye. She looks... real. Not like the Sarah Cameron that’s in every story I’ve heard. Just... Sarah.
She turns to me suddenly, eyes bright. “Okay, wait. I have an idea.”
I raise a brow. “This sounds dangerous already.”
“No, no, hear me out,” she grins. “We just decided we’re soulmates, right?”
“I mean, that’s what the popcorn ritual means, I think.”
“So,” she continues, dragging the word, “don’t soulmates like... tell each other one deep, dark, tragic secret to seal the bond?”
I blink at her. “Is that a rule? Because I’ve definitely been doing friendship wrong.”
She shrugs, smiling. “Okay, maybe not a rule, but like—it makes sense. No better way to prove we’re stuck with each other now.”
There’s a long moment where the ocean’s the only sound between us.
She nudges me with her shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be a secret-secret. Just... something that matters. Something sad, even. I don’t know. I just—feel like I’d get it. Whatever it is.”
I look at her. Really look. And for some reason, I believe her.
She drops down onto the sand, and I follow. We sit close, our knees almost touching, facing the water like it’s a screen we’re watching our lives play out on.
“I’ll go first,” she says softly. “Since it was my idea.”
I nod, staying quiet.
“I love my brothers. Like—so much. But I’ve always felt like I’m not enough to fix them,” she starts, voice barely above the waves. “Rafe is... Rafe. He used to protect me from everything, even himself. And then one day it was like he disappeared but was still living in the same house. And Wheezie’s a baby still, even if she acts like she knows everything. I’m scared she’ll grow up and become like the rest of us.”
I glance at her. Her hands are buried in the sand.
She swallows. “And my mom… She died when I was really little. I don’t remember her much, but I know everything changed after that. My dad changed. Rafe got darker. And for a long time, I thought I had to keep everything perfect just so the house wouldn’t collapse on all of us.”
There’s a pause. Then she lets out a breath. “That was depressing. Your turn.”
I smile faintly, heart weirdly full and heavy all at once. “You know, I always thought you were just this rich girl with perfect hair and an annoying boyfriend.”
She laughs. “Fair.”
“But tonight...” I trail off, eyes on the waves. “I don’t know. It’s the first time in a long time I don’t feel like I’m performing. You make it easy to be... not okay.”
She turns toward me slightly, curious. “So what’s your thing?”
I pick at the sand between my fingers. “I guess... I never really felt like I belonged. Even with the Pogues. I love them, but sometimes I feel like I’m playing the role of ‘Kiara, the cool, fearless chick who stands up to the world’—and I don’t always feel like her. Not inside.”
I glance over. She’s not judging. She’s just listening.
“And my parents,” I continue. “They’re good people. Respected. Kind. But I’m not the daughter they expected. I don’t think they know what to do with me.”
We sit there for a while after that, not saying much. But it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels safe.
Then Sarah nudges me again. “Wanna build a sandcastle and name it after our trauma?”
I snort. “Absolutely.”
And we do.
Then we see them.
Little dark shells dotting the sand near the dunes, slow-moving and desperate. At first I think it’s rocks, but then I realize—they’re baby turtles. No one else is around. Just us. And dozens of tiny lives trying to find the ocean.
“Oh my god,” Sarah breathes, crouching instantly. “They’re going the wrong way.”
We both drop to our knees and start working together. Gently picking them up, one by one, careful not to frighten them or hurt them. We whisper stupid things like you got this, little dude and go, baby, go , guiding them toward the water with our hands, our laughter, our care. We don’t film it. We don’t scream or call anyone. It just feels too precious. Too real. Like something the world gifted us in return for finally figuring each other out.
By the time the last turtle disappears into the waves, we’re both quiet. Watching. Breathing in the salt and the silence. Sarah’s arm brushes mine and I don’t pull away.
We sit for a minute longer before my phone buzzes.
Dad : Tell me exactly where on the beach you are. I’ll come get you.
I text him a quick drop pin and stand up, brushing sand off my legs.
“My dad’s coming,” I say. “He’ll probably insist on driving you too.”
Sarah smiles, standing beside me. “Honestly, I wouldn’t complain.”
We walk toward the street together, shoes in our hands. There’s a sleepy peace in the way we move now, like the night’s stretched us into something softer. I can feel the smile tugging at my mouth and it won’t leave.
“I’m excited for tomorrow,” she says out of nowhere, glancing sideways at me.
“What’s tomorrow?”
“School,” she says, with the tiniest shrug. “We have all our classes together, remember?”
I grin. “Right. That’s going to be… weird.”
“Weird and awesome,” she corrects. “Like, maybe high school will actually suck less now.”
“I wish we’d been friends sooner.”
“Me too.”
We keep walking until we spot my dad’s car. He’s waiting with the window rolled down, soft music playing inside. When he sees us, he waves.
“You need a ride home?” he calls to Sarah.
She looks at me first, then back at him. “If it’s okay, yeah. That would be amazing.”
“No problem,” he says. “Hop in.”
We’re walking toward the car when Sarah slows down, hesitating for half a second. I glance at her and she’s suddenly quieter.
“Hey… can I say something kind of dumb?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You? Never.”
She gives me a look, then laughs nervously. “I think the reason I never really talked to you before is because… I was a little scared of you.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
Sarah shrugs. “I don’t know. You just… you’re strong. You don’t care what anyone thinks. You walk into a room and everyone kind of… feels it. I always thought you were amazing. But also maybe that you hated me.”
My mouth falls open. “I didn’t hate you.”
She looks down at her hands. “I know. I just… made it up in my head, I guess.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, I probably had a dumb idea of you too. But I’m glad I got drunk last night.”
Sarah laughs, warm and bright. “Me too.”
We reach the car and slide into the backseat. My dad asks how our night was and we both say “good” at the same time. But it was more than good. It was something else.
Something that feels like the beginning of everything.
I’m already curled up in bed when it hits me. All of it.
The silence of my room lets everything crash in at once—the fight with my friends, the yelling, the looks, the way JJ’s voice cracked when he told me I was dead to them. I don’t know if this is the end of P4L. I guess… It kind of feels like it. Because even if we share the same air, we don’t share the same world anymore. Not after that.
Rafe being nice today messes me up more than I want to admit. My brain tries to shove it away fast, like it’s some glitch in the matrix. But it lingers. That version of him that wasn’t cruel, wasn’t mocking—just quietly doing the right thing. And the worst part is knowing this isn’t the last time I’ll see him. Not just at school. Not just at dumb Kook parties. But at Sarah’s. In her space. The one place I thought I’d be safe from people like him.
Because someone like Rafe never really lets you go. Even when he’s kind, it’s not clean. It never is.
And yet… even with all that. Even with the ache of everything I lost today, for the first time—it doesn’t ruin me. It doesn’t define me.
I’m not the same Kiara anymore.
And for once, I’m not trying to hate her.
This version of me—the one who snapped back, who didn’t look away, who didn’t let herself be erased—she feels like the real one. The one I’ve been pushing down to keep the peace, to belong, to make everyone else feel comfortable. But today, she came out. And yeah, everything blew up. But maybe it was supposed to. Maybe the universe had better plans, and this was just the cleanup before construction.
Because I’m not alone anymore. Not really.
Sarah surprised me. That connection we had today? It was instant. Real. She’s not pretending with me. She doesn’t talk to me like I’m her charity case or her temporary project. She sees me. And I didn’t know how much I needed that until now.
And my parents… they smiled at me today. Like genuinely smiled. Like I did something right for once. Like maybe this new me, this hair, this attitude, this truth I’m walking in—maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all. Maybe I’m finally someone they’re proud of.
So what could go wrong now?
Worse than what already did?
But just as that thought slips into my chest, something shifts.
Like a warning.
A whisper I don’t quite catch.
And then—black.
Notes:
I know that maybe at times this chapter feels a little fast-paced—but I think that’s kind of the point. With Sarah, from what we’ve seen in the show. She throws herself into things that excite her without thinking twice, like she’s afraid the moment will slip through her fingers if she doesn’t hold on right now. That kind of energy made sense here, especially in the way her connection with Kiara unfolds.
This isn’t just the end of something. It’s the start of her.
And yeah… maybe even the start of something else too.
(You know what I mean.)Thanks for reading, as always. I hope you felt her heartbeat the way I did.
– Less 🖤
Chapter 5: Unwanted Plans
Summary:
The moment she’s out of earshot, I lean across the table, eyes narrowing.
“Why are you doing this?”
Rafe’s already halfway into the chair, leaning back like he owns the place. “Doing what?”
“This. Coming in here. Accepting breakfast. Smiling like we’re… friends.” My voice is low but sharp. “You’re obviously just trying to mess with me.”
He smirks, drumming his fingers on the table. “Maybe I just wanted pancakes.”
I stare at him, deadpan. “Cut the crap, Rafe. What do you want?”
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “What if I told you I just enjoy making you uncomfortable? That enough of a reason?”
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday came faster than I expected.
One second I was watching baby turtles find their way to the ocean, thinking maybe the universe didn’t hate me after all, and the next, I was walking into school with the faintest feeling that something had shifted.
Sarah and I hadn’t really talked about it, but there was something almost surreal about knowing we’d see each other here—not just in passing, not just in the way you nod at someone in the hallway, but actually together .
My mom was thrilled. Like, practically glowing when I told her Sarah and I were hanging out. “She’s such a sweet girl, Kiara, and her family—so respectable. I’m so happy you’re surrounding yourself with good influences.” I didn’t have the heart to explain that the “good influences” she imagined weren’t exactly the full picture. She wouldn’t understand. Or maybe she would, but it’s easier to let her think I’m making her proud.
I found Sarah in our first class of the day—history, back corner by the window, her hair catching the sunlight like it had been staged for a movie scene. She grinned when she saw me, waving me over like we’d been doing this for years.
“Seat’s saved for you,” she said, tapping the chair beside hers.
Something about that felt… nice. Not the dramatic, life-changing kind of nice—just the kind that sneaks up on you, the kind that makes you realize how quickly you’ve gotten used to someone’s presence.
By lunch, the rhythm between us is easy—natural, even. We’ve already gone through two classes, traded whispered jokes during the teacher’s lectures, and now we’re walking to the cafeteria side by side like it’s muscle memory.
Sarah grabs her food and heads straight for a table tucked near the windows, far from the loudest clusters. I hesitate for a second, glancing toward the corner where she usually sits with her group—the girls who always look like they’ve been styled for a country club ad. But Sarah doesn’t even look their way.
“You’re not sitting with them?” I ask as I slide into the seat across from her.
She smirks, like I’ve just asked the most obvious question in the world. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” I say, peeling the wrapper off my sandwich. “I just thought you always did.”
“I used to,” she says, stabbing a fork into her salad. “But honestly? I don’t need them anymore. They’re fake. All of them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… blunt.”
She shrugs, like she couldn’t care less. “It’s true. And besides—” Her gaze softens, and she leans forward just enough that I can feel the sincerity in her voice. “I have you now.”
I blink, caught off guard by how simply she says it.
“Yeah,” she says with a small smile, “but I like you. And I don’t have to pretend around you.”
For a moment, the noise of the cafeteria fades into the background. I don’t know what to say, so I just smile back, trying not to overthink the fact that my chest feels a little lighter than it did this morning.
From that day on, it’s like something clicks into place. The weeks that follow are a blur of Sarah and me—inside jokes whispered across classrooms, lazy afternoons stretched out on the sand, late-night phone calls that spill past midnight without either of us noticing.
Weekends turn into a rotation between my house and Tannyhill. At mine, it’s pajamas and snacks spread across my bedroom floor, movie marathons that get interrupted by long, wandering conversations about everything and nothing. At hers, it’s sprawling couches and endless popcorn in the Cameron theater room, the two of us wrapped in blankets while some half-forgotten movie plays in the background.
Curiously, every time I’ve been to Tannyhill since that night, Rafe hasn’t been there. Not once. It’s almost eerie—like he’s turned into some sort of ghost haunting the edges of Sarah’s stories but never stepping into the room. Since the last party, it’s as if he’s evaporated from the house entirely. Part of me is relieved. The other part… well, the other part hates that I’ve thought about it more than I’d like to admit.
—...
We’re sprawled out across Sarah’s bed, a random movie playing on her TV, more background noise than anything else. The fairy lights along her wall cast a soft glow, and the air smells faintly like her vanilla lotion.
I’m halfway through a handful of gummy bears when the question just… slips.
“So, what’s going on with Rafe?”
Sarah freezes for half a second, then smirks like she’s not sure if she should be amused or annoyed. “He’s… I don’t know. Probably going through one of his depressive phases again.”
She sighs, flopping onto her back so her hair spills over the pillow. “So, that’s kind of his thing lately. Disappearing.” She stares at the ceiling. “We barely talk. Like, at all. And when we do, it’s usually an argument. We can’t be in the same room for more than five minutes without one of us saying something that pisses the other off.”
I wait, letting her keep going.
“He’s… complicated. Some days, it’s like he forgets I exist. Other days, he’s suddenly all up in my business, acting like I need him to tell me how to live my life. And when I push back—which, obviously, I do—it just blows up. It’s exhausting.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint frustration behind it. “Honestly, I think we just don’t get each other anymore. We’re too different. He’s on his own planet, and I’m on mine. And if I’m being real, it’s easier when he’s not around. Less drama.”
Her gaze flicks to me, and she gives a little shrug. “So yeah. He’s basically a ghost lately. And I’m not exactly in a rush to go ghost-hunting.”
I laugh at that, but part of me files it away, the pieces of Rafe I’ve seen starting to make a little more sense.
Sarah sits up suddenly, as if she’s just remembered something far more important than her ghost-brother issues.
“Okay, enough about Rafe,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “I have actual news.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? This sounds dangerous.”
“There’s a party this Saturday,” she announces, eyes lighting up. “And before you even say it—yes, I know you’ve been on some post-party trauma recovery thing since last time, but hear me out. This one is different. You have to come.”
I groan, already shaking my head. “Sarah—”
“No. Nope. Don’t do the ‘Sarah’ voice,” she interrupts, leaning forward like she’s about to sell me something I don’t need but will end up buying. “This is exactly what you need. A reset. New vibes, new crowd. And you’ll have me there the whole time. What could possibly go wrong?”
I give her a look that says really? , but she’s already grinning like she’s won.
“Fine,” I sigh, “but where is it?”
She tries—and fails—to sound casual. “Topper’s.”
Her enthusiasm spikes so fast I catch it before she can hide it. I narrow my eyes. “Wait… do you like him?”
Sarah’s cheeks tint just enough to confirm it. “Maybe,” she says with a mischievous smile. “He’s cute. And nice. And…” She shrugs, pretending she doesn’t care as much as she clearly does.
I smirk. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
She kicks me lightly with her foot. “Okay, Miss Judgey. Do you like anyone?”
“No,” I answer too quickly.
She gasps dramatically. “That’s it, I’m officially on a mission. Imagine how cute it would be if we both had boyfriends at the same time. Matching double dates, making out with guys at the same party, texting each other about them at 2 a.m., the works.”
I roll my eyes, but she’s on a roll now.
“You’ve never had that? Like… the butterflies?” she asks, her tone suddenly curious.
I think about it for a second. “I mean, sure, I’ve liked people before. But I wouldn’t say I’ve been, like, in love or anything.”
Sarah tilts her head. “Not even once? No heartbreak? No slow dances? No sneaky kisses?”
I laugh. “What are you, my biographer? No, nothing that dramatic. I’ve kissed people, sure. But most of the time it’s just… whatever. No real connection.”
She hums thoughtfully. “See, that’s the problem. You need sparks. You need that thing where you’re looking at someone across the room and your stomach does that stupid flip. You know?”
“And you’ve had that?” I ask, raising a brow.
She grins like she’s hiding a secret. “Once or twice. It’s fun… until it’s not. But even when it ends, you remember how alive it made you feel. Like, you can’t fake that.”
I tilt my head. “So, Mr. Topper has given you stomach flips?”
She bites her lip to hide a smile. “Maybe. He’s just… I don’t know. I like the way he makes me laugh. And he’s actually kind. Not like the fake kind. You’ll see.”
I roll over onto my side, facing her. “Okay, then what about your worst kiss?”
She bursts out laughing, instantly covering her face with her hands. “Oh my God, no, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can . Spill.”
“Fine,” she says between giggles. “Freshman year, homecoming afterparty. This guy named Dylan—tall, football player, totally hot. We’re sitting by the pool, he leans in, and… it’s like kissing a wet sponge. I swear he was trying to suffocate me with his tongue. I left and pretended I had to find my friends.”
I’m dying laughing now. “That’s horrifying.”
“Your turn,” she says, pointing at me.
I think about it. “Hmm… last year, this guy at a bonfire. He had just eaten a s’more, and he didn’t even check if there was marshmallow on his face before kissing me. I could taste the graham cracker and ash.”
We both collapse into laughter, clutching our sides.
She props her head on her hand, smiling at me. “See? This is what we’re doing Saturday. Finding someone worth kissing. I’ll work on Topper, you… I’ll scout for your future husband.”
I groan, but there’s no denying her excitement is contagious. “You’re insane.”
“And you love it,” she says, smirking before rolling over and turning up the movie volume.
Eventually, somewhere between the end of the movie and Sarah’s third yawn, we drift off. The TV hums quietly in the background, the glow flickering across the room as if it’s the only thing still awake.
I don’t know what time it is when my eyes snap open, but my throat feels like sandpaper. The kind of dryness that makes swallowing an actual chore. Normally, I’d just ignore it—no way I’m wandering around a house that big in the middle of the night. But Ward and Rose are out of town, and, as far as I know, Rafe’s been a ghost for weeks. Odds are he’s out too.
I slide out of bed as quietly as possible, careful not to wake Sarah, and pad barefoot down the hallway. The air feels cooler here, still carrying that faint ocean saltiness through the open windows. The kitchen’s dim, just enough light spilling from the under-cabinet LEDs to guide me. I grab a glass, fill it with cold water, and take a long sip.
On the way back, though, I hear something.
It’s faint at first—just a shuffle, like someone moving a chair. My first thought is that a cat is somehow out there. But then there’s the unmistakable clink of glass against metal.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I follow the sound to the terrace, keeping my steps light.
And there he is.
Rafe Cameron, hunched over the outdoor table, his back to me. There’s a small mirror laid out in front of him, neat white lines illuminated by the glow of a single lighter flickering beside him. He’s rolling up a bill with the kind of focus most people reserve for defusing bombs.
For a second, I just stand there, frozen. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and a part of me considers turning around, pretending I never saw this.
He must sense me, because before I can step back into the shadows, he straightens up just enough to glance over his shoulder.
“Well, well…” His voice is low, lazy, dripping with that brand of sarcasm that makes you want to both roll your eyes and throw something at him. “Are you spying on me, princess?”
I stiffen immediately. “I wasn’t spying. I heard something and came to check.”
He turns back to the table, running the rolled bill between his fingers like he’s bored already. “Sure. Just happened to ‘check’ exactly when I’m busy.”
“Busy?” I can’t help the disbelief in my tone. “That’s what you call it? Snorting your brains out?”
That gets his attention. He swivels fully toward me, leaning back in the chair with a smirk. “Wow. The moral compass of Kildare herself. Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” I snap, crossing my arms. “But maybe I do care about not having to watch you self-destruct on Sarah’s back at—” I glance toward the sky, “—whatever time this is.”
He chuckles, slow and deliberate, like he’s enjoying every ounce of my irritation. “Relax. This is nothing. Trust me, I’ve done worse.”
“That’s not exactly comforting,” I fire back.
I cross my arms, my tone sharp. “For starters, why are you even doing this crap? You have everything handed to you, and you’re still out here frying your brain when there are people who’d kill to have half of what you’ve got.”
He gives a short, humorless laugh, turning back to the table just enough to trail a finger along one of the lines. “Please. You’re not better than me just because you don’t do this.” His eyes flick back to mine, sharp now. “In the end, you’re still the girl who ditched her so-called best friends… all to play house on this side of the island.”
The jab lands hard, but he’s not done. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping. “And for what? So mommy can clap her hands and tell everyone how proud she is?”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs—sharp, mean, and too close to the truth for comfort. My jaw tightens, heat crawling up my neck.
“Careful, Rafe.”
He just smirks like he’s already drawn blood.
“That’s funny,” I say, stepping closer, matching his stare. “Because I bet Ward doesn’t know about this.”
That smirk falters instantly.
“Shame,” I add, letting the words drip, slow and venomous. “Would be such a pity if he found out…”
I turn, taking a slow, deliberate step toward the door. That’s as far as I get before his hand clamps around my arm — firm, unyielding. He yanks me back just enough that we’re suddenly face to face, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Do you think this is a game?” His voice is low, dangerous, the kind that curls in your stomach and makes your pulse kick up.
I meet his stare, refusing to flinch. “Maybe you’re the one treating it like a game. I’m just pointing out the rules.”
His grip tightens a fraction — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me exactly how close we are. “Careful, princess. You’re not in your little Pogue world anymore. Things work different here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? Last I checked, coke still rots your brain no matter which side of the island you’re on.”
That earns me a flash of something in his eyes — annoyance, maybe respect, maybe both. His jaw flexes, and for a second I think he’s going to say something else, something cutting. Instead, he lets go of my arm abruptly, like touching me burned him.
“Go back inside,” he mutters, turning back to his little setup, rolling the bill between his fingers again. “You’ve seen enough, Kie.”
I stand there a beat longer, watching him, feeling that strange mix of disgust and… curiosity I wish I didn’t have. Then I turn on my heel and walk back toward Sarah’s room, my heart still pounding, the phantom of his grip lingering on my skin.
I wake up later than usual, the kind of late where the sun is already spilling through the blinds in warm, blinding strips.
Sarah’s side of the bed is empty. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, waiting to hear the sound of her in the bathroom or rummaging through her closet. Nothing.
“Sarah?” I call out, stepping into the hallway. No answer.
I check the upstairs landing, the balcony, even peek into the kitchen from the doorway. Still nothing. My stomach does that weird twist—half annoyance, half worry.
I grab my phone and shoot her a quick text:
Hey, where’d you go?
A minute passes. No reply.
I try calling. It rings and rings before going to voicemail. “Okay… cool,” I mutter under my breath.
Fine. If she’s not here, I’ll just go home. I pull my bag over my shoulder and start heading toward the front door, still scrolling through my phone like maybe she’s magically going to text back.
That’s when I spot him—Rafe—coming in from outside, keys dangling from his fingers.
“Have you seen Sarah?” I ask, slowing my steps.
He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. She left.”
“Left?” I frown. “Where?”
He shrugs like it’s the most irrelevant question in the world. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t ask ?” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be.
“Do I look like I give a fuck what she does?” His tone is flat, like the words are just fact, not meant to sting.
I huff, adjusting my bag. “Well… tell her I went home, I guess.”
He eyes me for a beat, then jerks his chin toward the driveway. “You need a ride?”
“No.” The word comes out fast, automatic.
He steps closer, like he can hear the hesitation I didn’t mean to show. “Don’t be stubborn. You’ll get there faster. It’s not gonna kill me to drive you.”
For a second, I consider telling him exactly where he can stick that offer. But then I think about the sun beating down, the walk to my home, and the fact that Sarah clearly isn’t coming back anytime soon.
“Fine,” I mutter.
He smirks, unlocking the car with a lazy flick of his wrist. And just like that, for the first time ever, I get in Rafe Cameron’s car willingly.
The leather seat is warm from the sun, and the faint smell of his cologne mixes with that ever-present trace of cigarettes. Rafe drives like he owns every inch of road—one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the shifter, sunglasses hiding whatever expression he’s wearing.
It takes me about thirty seconds before I can’t take the silence anymore.
“Why are you being nice?” I blurt, glancing sideways at him. “You normally aren’t. What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t look over. “Can’t I just take my little sister’s best friend home? Ever heard of being a gentleman?”
“It’s hard to believe,” I say flatly.
That earns me a smirk. “You really do think I’m the devil, huh?”
“Is this about last night?” I press. “Me saying I could tell your dad about your… stuff? You worried about it?”
His jaw flexes almost imperceptibly, but his voice stays casual. “Should I be?”
“I’m not going to say anything,” I tell him, staring out the window. “It’s none of my business. If you wanna destroy yourself, that’s on you. I don’t give a fuck at the end of the day.”
He finally glances at me from behind the sunglasses, just for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out if I mean it.
“But,” I add, meeting his look without flinching, “next time, try doing it out of my sight. I don’t need to watch it.”
He lets out a small scoff, almost like he’s laughing at himself more than at me.
“You’ve got it all wrong tho,” he says, still keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m not… like that every night, okay? You think I’m out there constantly blowing lines? I’m not. It’s not a habit. I’ve just been… stressed lately.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Stressed. Right.”
He finally glances at me, brief but sharp. “What? You think your life is the only one that gets to be a mess?”
“That’s not what I said.” I lean back in the seat, arms crossed. “I’m just saying there are better ways to deal with it than frying your brain.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugs one shoulder, mouth twitching into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace. “Some people do yoga. I do coke. Guess we all cope differently, huh?”
“That’s not coping, that’s—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “Forget it. Like I said, it’s not my problem.”
His fingers drum against the steering wheel. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I meet his gaze, steady. “I’m talking because Sarah cares about you. And because she’s my friend, I… try not to completely write you off.”
He smirks, sharp and humorless. “Right. Saint Kiara, doing the Lord’s work. How noble.”
I turn toward the window. “Call it… basic human decency.”
The air between us goes thick again, heavy with unspoken jabs neither of us is willing to throw yet.
The rest of the drive is quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional shift of gears. And for some reason, that silence feels heavier than anything we just said.
By the time we pull up in front of my house, the sun’s already creeping higher, turning the driveway into a frying pan. My mom is outside, watering her plants like it’s her morning ritual.
She looks up when she hears the truck, eyes immediately lighting up. By the time I swing the passenger door open, she’s already heading over, curiosity and that mom smile all over her face.
“Kiara! You didn’t say you were bringing Rafe.” Her gaze shifts past me to him. “Hi, Rafe. You’re Sarah’s brother, right? Ward’s son?”
Rafe steps out, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk dialed down to something that actually passes for polite.
“Yeah. Morning, Mrs. Carrera,” he says, smooth and easy.
My mom nods, clearly pleased. “Have you had breakfast? My husband just made pancakes. Best on the island. You should come in and eat before you head out.”
I jump in before Rafe can even open his mouth. “Mom, no—he was just dropping me off. He’s busy.”
Rafe tilts his head, eyes glinting like he’s already decided how to play this.
“Actually…” He looks at my mom, voice innocent. “I could eat.”
My head snaps toward him. “You could —?!”
But my mom beams, oblivious to my death glare. “Perfect! Come in, come in! I’ll get you a plate.”
Rafe shoots me this sideways grin as he follows her toward the house, clearly enjoying every second of my silent meltdown.
We step inside, the air-conditioning wrapping around us like a cool blanket. My mom ushers us straight to the dining room table, already pulling out chairs.
“Sit, sit. I’ll go tell your dad we have company,” she says, and disappears toward the back of the house.
The moment she’s out of earshot, I lean across the table, eyes narrowing.
“Why are you doing this?”
Rafe’s already halfway into the chair, leaning back like he owns the place. “Doing what?”
“This. Coming in here. Accepting breakfast. Smiling like we’re… friends.” My voice is low but sharp. “You’re obviously just trying to mess with me.”
He smirks, drumming his fingers on the table. “Maybe I just wanted pancakes.”
I stare at him, deadpan. “Cut the crap, Rafe. What do you want?”
He tilts his head, pretending to think. “What if I told you I just enjoy making you uncomfortable? That enough of a reason?”
I throw my hands up. “Unbelievable.”
His grin only widens, like my irritation is fuel. “Relax, princess. I’m being polite. You should try it sometime.”
My mom pokes her head into the dining room first. “Oh, by the way—where’s Sarah? I thought she stayed over with you.”
I glance briefly at Rafe before answering. “She… left early. Rafe brought me back instead.”
Her face lights up like I just told her I got into Harvard. “That’s so nice of you, Rafe.”
He tilts his head, that polite smile locked in place. “Couldn’t let her walk home.”
She beams, clearly charmed, and then gestures for my dad to come in from the hallway. “Honey, look who’s here.”
My dad steps into the room, and the whole vibe shifts instantly. He’s grinning, already reaching out to shake Rafe’s hand. “Well, this is a surprise. Rafe Cameron in my house.”
Rafe stands smoothly, confident as ever, and clasps his hand. “Mr. Carrera. Good to see you.”
I’m sitting there, watching them like I’ve just stepped into some parallel universe.
Dad chuckles. “Same here, son. Didn’t expect you this morning.”
“Just helping Kiara out,” Rafe says, his tone warm but calculated. “Didn’t want her walking alone.” And then—he glances at me. That subtle, knowing glance that translates to: play along .
My mom reappears from the kitchen with two steaming plates. “Sit, sit. Mike made breakfast—pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit.” She sets one in front of Rafe like she’s hosting royalty.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says smoothly, sitting back down.
And that’s when it hits me—my parents are buying this . The whole “polite, charming gentleman” act.
Meanwhile, I’m across the table, stabbing at my pancakes like they’ve personally offended me.
He catches my eye over the rim of his coffee mug and smirks just slightly—small enough so my parents can’t see.
It’s infuriating. He’s in my house, eating my mom’s breakfast, charming my parents, and I can’t call him out without looking like the crazy one.
Mom slides into the seat next to Dad, eyes bright with curiosity. “So, Rafe… how’s your family? Haven’t seen Ward in ages.”
Rafe sets down his fork with perfect manners. “He’s good. Busy as always. Keeps himself wrapped up in work.”
Dad nods like he understands the struggle personally. “That’s Ward, all right.”
“And Sarah?” Mom asks.
“She’s fine,” Rafe says, smooth as ever. “Though clearly she’s too busy running off to even say goodbye this morning.”
I narrow my eyes at him over my glass of orange juice, but he doesn’t even look my way.
Mom laughs, oblivious. “She’s always been full of energy. I suppose you all keep each other on your toes.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Rafe replies, like he’s been part of some wholesome sibling bonding montage and not… well, himself .
Dad leans back in his chair, clearly settling in to stay a while. “So, what’s new with you, son? Still helping your dad with business?”
Rafe nods, every move deliberate, every answer tailored for maximum approval. “Trying to learn as much as I can. Figured it’s better to keep busy.”
I stab my pancake again, a little too hard this time. “Yeah. Keeps him out of trouble,” I mutter.
Mom shoots me a quick look— play nice —but Rafe just smirks faintly, like I’m background noise.
It’s infuriating. He’s charming my parents without breaking a sweat, answering every question like he’s auditioning for “Best Son-in-Law,” while I’m sitting here invisible except for the occasional warning glance from my mom.
Dad checks his watch halfway through his toast. “Well, kids, I’ve got to get down to the restaurant. Supplier’s coming early.”
Mom stands. “I’ll send you with more coffee—”
He waves her off, already heading toward the door. “Save it for these two. Looks like they need it more than me.”
And just like that, it’s me, Mom, and Rafe.
She smooths her hands on her apron. “Rafe, can I get you more coffee?”
He flashes her a polite smile. “Yes. That’d be great.”
She heads toward the kitchen, and the second she’s out of sight, I lean in just enough for him to hear me. “Why are you still here?”
He doesn’t even look up from buttering his pancake. “Eating breakfast. Isn’t that obvious?”
“I mean in my house. In my morning. You got me home—mission accomplished. You can go.”
Finally, he glances at me, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. “Maybe I like seeing you squirm while your mom tries to figure out why you look like you’re ready to stab me with a fork.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm.” He takes a slow bite, like he’s savoring the moment. “And you’re predictable.”
Footsteps return, and Mom sets a steaming mug in front of him. But this time, she lingers a second longer, eyes flicking between us.
“Everything okay here?” she asks, voice light but curious.
“Just fine,” Rafe says instantly, flashing that golden-boy smile.
I force my own smile, but I can tell from the faint narrowing of her eyes—she’s not buying it.
Rafe finishes the last bite of his pancake, sets the fork down, and pushes back from the table.
“I’ll take these,” he says, reaching for his plate.
Mom waves a hand immediately. “Oh, no, no—don’t worry about that. You’re a guest. I hope we see you around here more often, Rafe. It’s been a pleasure.”
He gives her that perfectly polite half-smile, the one that would probably fool anyone who doesn’t actually know him. “Thank you, ma’am. Breakfast was great.”
Mom beams. “You’re welcome, honey.” Then she turns to me. “Kiara, walk him out to his car.”
I blink at her. “What? He can walk himself—”
“Kiara,” she says in that don’t-push-me tone only mothers have mastered.
I clamp my mouth shut and stand, my expression carefully neutral, though I know Rafe’s catching every ounce of the irritation I’m radiating.
He falls into step beside me as we head for the front door. I can feel his sideways glance. “Guess chivalry’s contagious,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer. Not until we’re outside and the door clicks shut behind us. “Don’t read too much into this. I’m only doing it so my mom will leave me alone.”
Rafe smirks, unlocking his car.
He opens the driver’s side door, but instead of getting in right away, he leans against it, looking entirely too entertained for someone who’s supposedly just here to give me a ride.
“So,” he drawls, eyes scanning my face like he’s reading a particularly amusing book, “is this where we do the whole… ‘thanks for the ride’… polite hug… maybe even a kiss goodbye thing?”
I stare at him. “In your dreams.”
He grins, like that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Didn’t say it’d be my dream, Kie. Could be yours.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I definitely fantasize about being on your list of one-night mistakes.”
His smirk sharpens just a fraction. “Careful. I might start thinking you’ve been thinking about it.”
I take a deliberate step back. “The only thing I’m thinking is how fast I can get back inside before my mom decides to invite you over for dinner.”
That earns a low chuckle as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Better watch it. I might just take her up on it.”
Before I can fire back, he shuts the door and starts the engine, leaving me with the distinct and infuriating feeling that he somehow got the last word.
I barely make it two steps back into the house before Mom’s voice comes from the hallway.
“Kiara.”
Oh no. That tone.
She folds her arms, eyebrow arched. “Why do you have to be so rude? Do you realize the impression you just gave? Not just of yourself, but of our family.”
I blink at her. “You mean the family who just had Ward Cameron’s son over for breakfast like he’s the poster boy for Southern manners?”
Her frown deepens. “He was perfectly polite.”
I let out a short laugh, sharp enough to sting. “Yeah, that’s the point. You’re buying into his little good guy theater. You don’t know him, Mom. He’s—” I stop myself, hands tightening at my sides. “—he’s impossible. And not in some cute, redeemable way. Just… impossible.”
“Kiara,” she sighs, shaking her head, “sometimes I think you decide who people are before you give them a chance.”
“Or maybe,” I fire back, “I know exactly who he is because I’ve actually seen it.”
Her mouth presses into that disapproving line that says the conversation is over — for now.
I’m already heading for my room, muttering under my breath, “Polite. Sure. Tell that to the empty baggie in his pocket last night.”
Back in my room, I toss my bag onto the bed and sink down beside it. My head still feels heavy from the morning—like I’ve been holding my breath for hours—and for a moment I just sit there, letting the quiet wrap around me.
That’s when I see it: my phone lighting up with two unread messages from Sarah and a handful of missed calls I never even noticed.
I swipe the screen open.
Sarah: Kie, sorry sorry sorry
Sarah: I’ll explain later
I press call before I can overthink it. She picks up almost instantly.
“Kie, I’m so sorry,” she blurts, voice tumbling over itself. “I left because… okay, so I got invited to grab ice cream, and you were passed out, and I didn’t want to wake you up. I thought it’d just be, like, an hour, but then we kept talking and—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, settling back against the headboard. “I totally understand.”
“I came back later and you weren’t there.”
“Yeah… Rafe offered to drive me home. And honestly, I didn’t feel like walking.”
There’s a pause on the line, just long enough for me to picture her blinking. “He offered that?”
“Yep.”
“That’s… unusual. For him.”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Random, I guess.”
“Anyway,” she says, the shift in her tone almost audible, “when can I see you? Because I have to tell you everything.”
“Everything?”
“Oh, everything ,” she insists. “There’s Topper, a ridiculous lipstick accident, and the possibility of me moving to another continent out of pure embarrassment.”
That pulls a real laugh out of me. “God, I’ve missed our girl talk.”
“Well then prepare yourself,” she says. “Because I’m going to need your expert advice on how not to make a fool of myself before the week’s over.”
Her voice is so bright, so unapologetically Sarah, that for a moment I forget the morning entirely—the tension, the strange ride home, the way Rafe’s smirk still lingers in the back of my mind like a stubborn shadow.
“Well, before the party,” Sarah says, “when we’re getting ready, I’ll tell you everything .”
“The party?” I echo.
“Yes, babe, the party.”
“…Is that today?”
She laughs, loud and incredulous. “Yes, babe. I told you.”
“I thought you meant next Saturday.”
“No, I said this Saturday.”
There’s a beat where my brain tries to catch up, my stomach sinking as the math adds up. “Wait. It’s already Saturday?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Oh, fuck.” I rub a hand over my face. The idea of loud music, strangers, and forced small talk suddenly feels about as appealing as dental surgery. “Sarah, I don’t know if—”
“Nope. Don’t even start with me.” Her voice sharpens playfully, but she’s deadly serious underneath. “You already told me yes. Which means you’re coming. End of story.”
I groan into the phone, but she barrels right over me.
“I’ll be at your place at seven. That gives us plenty of time. And Kie?”
“What?”
“You’re not getting out of this. So get ready to look hot and have fun.”
The line clicks off before I can protest again, leaving me staring at my phone like it just betrayed me.
Notes:
Okay, so… I know I’ve been MIA for a while. Life decided to throw, like, a million things at me all at once (shoutout to the universe for keeping me on my toes 🙃).
But I’m back, and this chapter? Oh, it’s full of clichés and peak Riara moments.
I had way too much fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Buckle up.
Chapter 6: Things I Don’t Want to Know
Summary:
I hesitate before opening it. I’ve never been in Rafe’s room before—not that I’ve ever wanted to. It’s cleaner than I expected, though not spotless. The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled. There’s a desk with papers scattered across it and a few golf tees tossed like they were emptied from a pocket without thinking. The air smells faintly of cologne, layered with salt and something sharper—gun oil, maybe.
One wall is covered in framed photos and trophies; another is lined with books that don’t quite match the person I’ve built in my head.
I hate that I’m noticing any of it. I hate even more that part of me is… seeing him differently. Not forgiving—never that—but catching glimpses of something under all the layers I’ve spent years despising.
Empathy’s a dangerous habit. And I’ve always been cursed with too much of it.
Notes:
This chapter was me playing with Kiara’s inner mess, how she’s trying to fully fit into this world but also catching glimpses of sides to people she doesn’t even like… and hating herself a little for noticing.
Also, Sarah + Kiara moments!! Their friendship is super important to me so I wanted to keep it strong here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sarah shows up a little after seven, the front door swinging open before I even get a chance to call out. She’s holding a paper bag that smells suspiciously like fries, and her hair is wind-tossed like she’s been through a storm.
She kicks her shoes off at the door, makes a beeline for the couch, and flops down with the kind of sigh that promises drama.
I raise an eyebrow. “You look like you either robbed a fast-food joint or got proposed to. Which is it?”
She groans, dropping the bag between us. “Neither. But I need you to know that I have never, in my life, experienced secondhand embarrassment for myself the way I did today.”
I grin, pulling a fry from the bag. “This is about Topper, isn’t it?”
She narrows her eyes. “Obviously.” Then she leans in, like the walls might be listening. “We were supposed to just get ice cream—simple, casual, public enough that nothing weird could happen. But the guy at the counter knew him. Which should be fine, right? Wrong. He decides to order in, like, the most overcomplicated, bougie way possible. I’m talking extra toppings that I didn’t even know existed. And then—”
She pauses, pressing her lips together.
I’m already laughing. “Don’t tell me he tried to flirt while paying.”
“Worse,” she says, voice low, eyes wide. “He tries to tip the guy… in change. Like actual coins. And he drops them. Everywhere. I swear, it was like watching someone spill marbles in a movie. And then I had to help pick them up while the guy just stood there trying to charm me with some story about ‘saving small businesses.’”
I can’t stop laughing now. “Oh my god, Sarah.”
She throws a fry at me. “You weren’t there. You don’t understand the energy of the moment. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.”
I lean back against the cushions, still smiling. “So, what I’m hearing is… you had fun.”
She rolls her eyes but her mouth twitches. “It wasn’t awful. He’s… okay. When he’s not being a walking, talking disaster.”
I smirk. “You like him.”
“I do not,” she says too quickly, and then—because she can’t help herself—her expression shifts into that sly, matchmaking grin I know too well. “Anyway, speaking of disasters… I have a plan for you tonight.”
I groan. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” she says, already plotting, and I know—just know—that I should be worried.
“So, I’ve been thinking… There are two perfectly decent guys who are going to be there, and either one would be a huge improvement over your usual type—no offense.”
“All offense taken.” I cross my arms, but she barrels on.
She leans in, voice low like she’s about to reveal state secrets. “Option one: Cole.”
I blink. “Who?”
“You’ve seen him before,” she insists, like my brain is the problem here. “Relatively popular, super nice. Pretty sure he waved at you once. And, he’s tall. You like tall.”
I try to picture him and come up blank. “Tall?” I ask, mostly to buy time.
“Rafe’s type of tall,” she says, smirking.
I roll my eyes.
“Option two: Ethan,” she continues, ignoring me. “He plays lacrosse, friends with Topper and Kelce—so you’ve definitely seen him around.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, I know who you mean. Always wearing those backwards caps, right?”
“That’s the one. And—” she grins, like this is the selling point— “remember when I told you about the ketchup incident?”
I laugh. “The one where he tripped and took the fries down with him?”
She nods. “Exactly. But he’s cute, you can’t deny it.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, which is my polite way of saying I’m not convinced.
“Oh, and where are your parents tonight?” she asks suddenly.
“Out,” I say. “Which means after the party, I’m crashing with you.”
“Perfect,” she says, eyes glinting. “Even more time to execute my plan.”
We’re in my kitchen, the one with the big island Mom swears makes cooking easier—though she mostly uses it for dumping grocery bags before disappearing again. Sarah’s perched on one of the stools, chin in hand, watching me demolish the leftover empanadas from lunch. She’s got that look that says she’s judging me but also a little impressed.
“You eat like a linebacker,” she comments, stealing one off my plate without shame.
I roll my eyes. “And you eat like a bird. One of those tiny ones that faints if it skips breakfast.”
She smirks, breaking off a piece of her stolen empanada. “Birds are elegant.”
“Birds are annoying,” I shoot back, but there’s a grin tugging at my mouth anyway.
We eat like that for a while, the hum of the fridge filling the quiet, Sarah humming a song I don’t recognize. Then she claps her hands once, like a teacher calling class to order.
“Alright,” she says, hopping off the stool. “Time to get ready.”
I groan. “We still have time.”
“Not enough for you to argue about it.” She grabs her garment bag and heads upstairs without waiting for me.
Sarah drops the bag on my bed and unzips it with a flourish like she’s unveiling crown jewels.
Inside are two dresses—one white and blinding, the other a sleek black that’s simple but not plain.
“White’s mine,” she says, pulling it out and holding the black one up to me. “This one’s yours.”
I stare at it like it’s contagious. “No.”
“Yes,” she says, already draping it over my desk chair.
“Sarah—”
“Kiara,” she interrupts, smug as hell. “With those legs? It’s a crime to hide them.”
I snort. “I’m wearing sneakers.”
“Not with this, you’re not.”
Before I can come up with another excuse, she’s unzipping her makeup bag on my desk. “Light makeup,” she announces. “You won’t feel it, but everyone else will notice.”
I sink into the chair, watching her in the mirror as she dusts something over my cheeks. “So,” I say casually, “are you planning on kissing Topper tonight?”
She almost drops the brush. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror before she laughs and shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not a no.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer—basically a yes.
We’re halfway through doing some last-minute lip gloss touch-ups when the honk blares from outside.
Sarah’s head snaps toward the window. “There’s our ride.”
I pause, mascara wand in hand. “Our ride?”
She grins like she’s been waiting for this. “I asked Rafe. And surprisingly, he said yes.”
I snort. Wow. How kind. A true gentleman.
We grab our bags and head out. The night air is warm, sticky in that OBX way, and the faint thump of bass from somewhere in the distance already feels like trouble brewing.
Rafe’s leaning against the driver’s side of his truck when we get to the driveway, arms crossed, smirk locked in place like he’s been rehearsing it. His eyes drag over us, taking his sweet time before he says—
“Well, don’t you two look like trouble I’m gonna have to babysit tonight.”
Sarah rolls her eyes and heads straight for the passenger seat. “Shut up, Rafe.”
I just smirk, shaking my head as I climb into the back. Babysit? More like stalk. Let’s see who needs babysitting by the end of the night.
Rafe pulls up in front of the house, the bass from inside already spilling out into the night. Laughter drifts through the open windows, mingling with the hum of voices and the faint smell of beer in the air.
He kills the engine, his hand still on the wheel, and turns just enough to look at us.
“Well, here we are. Now, don’t talk to me all night,” he says, that half-smirk tugging at his mouth—the kind that means he’s doing it just to get under my skin.
Sarah rolls her eyes. “Relax, wasn’t planning on it.”
I push the door open, stepping out without looking back. “Perfect. Works for both of us.”
Rafe’s already making his way inside, slipping through the crowd like he owns the place. Sarah and I follow a beat later, weaving past a couple of guys stumbling out, their laughter sharp in my ear. The warmth and the pulse of the party hit me at once—light spilling across faces, music vibrating through the floor.
Sarah leans closer, her voice raised over the noise. “Alright, mission: have fun… and don’t let my brother ruin the night.”
Inside, the party feels like it’s swallowing us whole—music pounding, lights cutting through the haze, bodies swaying everywhere.
We barely make it two steps before Topper materializes out of nowhere, a drink in his hand and that stupid grin plastered across his face.
“Well, look who it is,” he says, eyes flicking from Sarah to me before settling right back on her. “You clean up nice, Cameron.”
Sarah rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitch upward. “And you’re still running the same lines, huh?”
He chuckles, leaning casually against the doorway like this is some kind of movie scene. “What can I say? They work. Hi, Kie.”
“Hey,” I reply, giving him the kind of polite smile you save for your friend’s annoying ex.
He smirks at Sarah again. “Don’t go disappearing on me tonight.”
“I make no promises,” she fires back, already tugging me by the wrist toward the kitchen.
We cut through the crush of people toward the kitchen, where the counters are lined with half-empty bottles and melting ice. Sarah hands me a plastic cup, pouring something bright and cold before filling her own.
“To not dying of boredom,” she says, raising her drink.
I clink mine against hers. “And to not letting your brother ruin the night.”
Her smile sharpens. “Exactly.”
By the time we hit the dance floor, the bass feels like it’s in my bones. We find a pocket of space between a group of girls and some guy doing the worst body roll I’ve ever seen. Sarah’s already moving, drink in one hand, her hair catching the light every time she turns. I follow her lead, letting the music drown out everything else—the noise in my head, the presence of Rafe somewhere in this room, the way it always feels like he’s just one step away from colliding into my night.
We spin and laugh until the heat becomes too much, then Sarah grabs my hand and yanks me toward the kitchen again.
“Round two,” she announces, reaching for whatever bottle’s closest. She pours generously into two red cups, the sharp smell hitting me immediately.
She hands me mine, eyes glinting. “We need to be just tipsy enough to kiss boys without overthinking it.”
I choke on a laugh, nearly spilling my drink. “Oh my God, Sarah.”
“What?” she says, completely unbothered, sipping like it’s a perfectly reasonable game plan.
I’m still laughing when she clinks her cup against mine.
The tequila burns going down, but it’s the good kind of burn—the kind that makes Sarah throw her head back and laugh like she owns the night. We slam the empty shot glasses on the bar, and before I can suggest water, the opening notes of a song she’s obsessed with start blasting through the speakers.
“Oh my god, Kie!” she squeals, grabbing my wrist. “This is my song. Come on. I’ve got the best idea. Trust me—it’s gonna make everything flow.”
I don’t even have time to ask before she’s pulling me into the crowd again. The beat is heavy, the kind that vibrates in your chest, and we start moving—hips swaying, hands in the air, hair falling into my face. Sarah’s grinning like she’s in on some secret, eyes scanning mine with a mischievous glint.
Then she steps closer. And closer. The space between us disappears until I can feel her breath against my cheek.
“What are you—?” I start, but then her hands are cupping my face, and she kisses me.
It’s not long, but it’s not nothing, either—warm and unexpected, the taste of tequila and something sweet on her lips.
When she pulls back, she’s grinning like a troublemaker. “Told you I had a good idea.”
I blink at her, then burst out laughing. “You’re insane.”
“You liked it.”
“Please,” I tease, leaning closer so only she can hear, “I think you just developed a crush on me.”
She throws her head back laughing. “Oh, babe, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I’m flattered,” I shoot back, and we’re both laughing again, the music pounding around us.
But as we spin, I can feel eyes on us—more than a few. People definitely saw.
Sarah just winks at me like it was all part of the plan.
We’re still laughing when I feel it—the weight of someone’s eyes. I glance over and… yeah. Rafe. Across the room with some girl’s hand on his chest, but his gaze is locked right on us.
Before I can process that, Topper appears, sliding into our little bubble.
“Mind if I steal her for a sec?” he asks, eyes flicking to Sarah.
I catch Sarah’s expression—she wants to go. And I’m not about to be the third wheel. “Go ahead,” I say, patting her arm.
She mouths sorry before disappearing with him into the crowd.
I turn back toward the bar, weaving through people. I’m reaching for a cup when a voice beside me offers, “Need a hand with that?”
I glance over my shoulder, ready to politely brush him off, and… okay, he’s actually holding out a bottle, like he’s been waiting to swoop in. He’s tall—really tall—and has that kind of easy smirk people use when they know it works.
“Uh… sure,” I say, sliding my cup toward him. He pours without asking how much, like we’ve done this a hundred times.
“Appreciate it,” I add, taking the drink back.
“No problem. I’m Cole, by the way.”
I blink. “Oh—that Cole.”
His brow lifts, curious. “That Cole? Didn’t know I had a reputation already.”
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “Not a reputation, just… a friend mentioned you.”
“And? Should I be worried?”
“Depends.” I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “She said you were nice… and tall. So far I can confirm the tall part.”
That earns me a grin. “Guess I’ll have to work on earning the ‘nice’ before the night’s over.”
I sip my drink, letting the taste settle, my eyes flicking over the crowd before landing back on him. “We’ll see how you do.”
He tilts his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curling up.
“So… Kiara, right?”
“Yeah,” I nod, returning the smile. “And you’re Cole.”
“Guilty.” His voice is easy, warm. “So, tell me—what do you do for fun around here? I mean, when you’re not stuck at a dinner table making small talk.”
I let out a small laugh. “Honestly? I’m usually in the water. Surfing, diving… sometimes just taking the boat out. There’s not much that beats a day on the ocean.”
His eyes light up. “Okay, good answer. I’m big on the water too. I used to sail a lot, but lately it’s been more paddleboarding and fishing. Not the boring kind, though—the kind where you actually have to fight for it.”
I smirk. “So you’re competitive.”
“I prefer the term ‘determined.’” He grins. “What about you? Are you one of those chill, go-with-the-flow surfers, or do you get all fired up when someone drops in on your wave?”
“Let’s just say I believe in ocean karma,” I tease. “If someone steals my wave, the ocean will humble them later. But, you know… I might throw a look.”
He laughs, leaning back like he’s genuinely enjoying this. “I like that. You’ve got an edge.”
I shrug, sipping my drink. “Comes with growing up here. You learn to hold your ground but still keep it fun.”
Cole nods like he gets it. “Yeah, I like places where people actually care about where they live. I’m into hiking too, though. Like finding spots nobody else goes to.”
“Hidden trails?” I ask.
“Exactly. The kind you can’t just look up on some travel blog. I swear, half the fun is figuring out how to even get there.”
“That’s my kind of thing,” I say, leaning in slightly. “I know a few spots here that even the locals forget about.”
“Are you offering to show me?” he asks, mock-serious.
I grin. “Maybe. If you’re not scared of a little mud or mosquito bites.”
“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement.
It’s easy, the way the conversation drifts—swapping favorite places, laughing about bad weather ruining good plans, and comparing the best times of year for being out on the water. It doesn’t feel forced, just… comfortable.
He tells me he’s still figuring out what classes he’ll take this semester, but history’s always been his thing.
“I like the stories,” he says with a shrug. “Even if half the time they’re about people doing stupid stuff and calling it bravery.”
I grin. “So you’re the guy who actually enjoys the lectures?”
“Only when the professor doesn’t sound like they’re reading a grocery list.” His smile is quick, playful. “What about you? What’s your go-to subject?”
“Marine biology,” I answer without hesitation. “I like the idea of learning about something that’s still… alive. Not just in a textbook.”
He nods like he gets it, like it makes sense to him in a way he won’t need me to explain.
From there, we slide into movies—his all-time favorite is Jaws, which makes me laugh.
“That’s supposed to scare people off the ocean, you know,” I tell him.
“Maybe,” he says, smirking. “Or maybe it just makes you respect it more.”
The air between us feels easy, like we’ve known each other longer than a few minutes.
Cole leans forward a little, chin propped on his hand. “So, what’s your go-to comfort movie? The one you’ve seen a hundred times?”
I shrug, smiling faintly. “Depends on the mood. But if I’m sick or need to zone out? Probably The Goonies. Old but gold.”
A shadow falls over the table. “Kiara,” a voice cuts in—low, steady.
I glance up, and there’s Rafe. Hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, but his eyes are locked on me.
“Uh…” I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah?”
“We need to talk.”
Cole shifts, glancing between us. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly, almost dismissively, turning back to Cole for a second. “It’s fine. Just… give me a minute, okay?”
“Sure,” he says.
“This better be important,” I murmur as I stand.
“It is,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes me follow without another word.
When we’re far enough from the table, I fold my arms.
“Did something happen with Sarah?” I ask, raising a brow, half-expecting some Cameron-family drama bomb.
“No,” he says—too fast. Then he smirks, like he’s already reading the suspicion on my face. “Just figured I’d save you the trouble of wasting your time.”
“My time?” The laugh slips out before I can stop it. “On Cole?”
“That’s his name? Cute.” His voice is casual, but the curl of his lip gives him away. “Yeah. Not exactly the crowd you should be running with.”
I scoff. “And you’re suddenly the authority on who I should hang out with?”
He leans against the railing, studying me like I’m the one being absurd.
“Look, I’m trying to help you here—”
“Help me?” I cut in, disbelief lacing every syllable. “By dragging me away mid-conversation like some overprotective—”
“Overprotective?” His eyebrows lift, a mocking light in his eyes. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, right. Because you care so little.”
“I care enough to tell you Cole’s not it,” he shoots back, voice low but sharp. “But like always, you’ll ignore me, do whatever stubborn thing you’ve already decided on, and then act surprised when it blows up in your face.”
My jaw tightens, but I paste on a smile, pure sarcasm. “Wow. Thanks for the pep talk, Cameron.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” His tone is all mockery, but his eyes don’t move off mine—not right away. They linger just long enough to make my pulse jump before he pushes off the railing and walks past me, leaving the air thick in his wake.
By the time I walk back to the table, Cole’s still there, sipping the last of his drink like he’s been saving it just to make the wait look casual. His eyes find mine instantly, like I didn’t just disappear for several minutes.
“Thought you ditched me,” he says, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
We talk a little more—about the best road trip routes, how the ocean feels different depending on where you stand, and which movie sequels never should’ve been made. It’s easy, lighter than I expect, and there’s a part of me that almost forgets the heat of Rafe’s words still buzzing in my ears.
But then Cole glances at his watch and sighs. “I should probably head out before my dad thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Wouldn’t want that on my conscience,” I say, my smile small but genuine.
He hesitates for half a second, then pulls his phone from his pocket, holding it out to me. “Guess I’ll need your number. You know, for the sunset photos. Strictly scientific purposes.”
I roll my eyes but take his phone, tapping in my contact before sliding it back to him. “Sure. Science.”
He grins, like he’s reading more between the lines than I’m giving away.
I’m barely done tucking my phone back into my clutch when Sarah swoops back into the dining room, her eyes catching on me like she’s been looking for a while. There’s that little smirk she wears when she’s about to tease me, and sure enough—
“So… you and Cole, huh?” she drawls, her shoulder nudging mine as she slides in beside me.
I roll my eyes, sipping what’s left in my glass. “We were just talking.”
Her grin is practically glowing. “Uh-huh. Looked like more than talking from where I was standing.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What were you even doing this whole time?”
Sarah tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Nothing… just mingling. I promise it didn’t get to a kiss.”
That catches me off guard. “Good,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to. “You vanished long enough to make me wonder if I’d have to go looking for you.”
Her smile softens, sincerity slipping through. “I didn’t want you to worry. I just… needed a bit of space.”
I set my glass down, leaning closer. “Take all the time you need, Sar. I’ll wait.”
For a second, she just looks at me—really looks at me—like she’s trying to memorize my face. Then she squeezes my hand. “Thank you. I’ll be back in thirty.” She’s already stepping away when she tosses it over her shoulder, “Love you, Kie.”
And just like that, she disappears again, swallowed by the hum of voices and the clink of silverware.
I take another slow drag, the smoke curling between my fingers, warm in my chest. The night’s quiet up here, except for the low hum of voices from the dining room far below. I’m not expecting company—so when I hear the sliding door creak, I’m already annoyed.
It’s him.
Rafe.
He’s moving slow, lazy steps, that same drunk glint in his eyes. He smirks when he sees me, like catching me with the joint is the punchline of some long-running joke only he gets.
“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the railing looking too drunk and stupid as always. “Look at you. Thought you were above all this.” He gestures at the smoke, his tone dripping mockery. “Guess I’m not the only Cameron family disappointment anymore.”
I roll my eyes, exhaling toward the dark sky. “You’re really comparing weed to—”
“Coke?” he cuts in, smiling wider. “Yeah. Both are drugs,’ princess. That’s enough for me.”
I want to snap back, but there’s something in his voice—underneath the sarcasm—that’s not entirely smug. It’s tired.
He moves closer and sits down beside me, the railing pressing into his back. We stay in silence for a minute, passing the smoke between us without thinking.
“Why do you do it?” I ask finally, watching the ember glow between my fingers. “Seriously. Why all the blow, the pills—whatever the hell you’re on this week?”
He chuckles low, shaking his head. “What, you writing a PSA now?”
“Rafe,” I say, softer this time.
For a second, his eyes flick to mine, and the smirk falters. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, the air between us shifting.
“Because it’s easy,” he says, voice rougher now. “Because it shuts everything up. All the noise, the shit I don’t want to think about. When I’m high, I don’t… feel like me. And that’s—” He stops, swallows. “That’s the point.”
I stare at him, the usual heat between us replaced by something heavier.
“You could just… deal with it. Talk to someone,” I murmur.
He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that. Me and my therapist, holding hands.”
I don’t push. I just sit there, close enough that I can hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing. And for once, he doesn’t try to fill the silence.
He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just stares out into the dark stretch of ocean like he’s waiting for it to swallow him whole. The joint burns slow between my fingers, the smoke curling up into the thick night air, and I can feel his energy shift—less sharp, less mocking, like the sarcasm’s only hanging on out of habit.
“You’re deflecting,” I say quietly, watching the ember glow at the tip. “Like you always do.”
That earns me a sideways glance, faintly amused but… tired. “And you think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”
I shrug. “Not all of you. But maybe enough to know you don’t just—do this for fun.”
He exhales through his nose, slow. His hand runs over his jaw like he’s stalling for time. “You ever feel like there’s this… constant hum in your head? Like you can’t shut it off. It’s just there, loud as hell, even when everything’s quiet.”
I nod, not because I’ve felt it exactly, but because I can picture it.
“Coke, booze, whatever—it’s like flipping a breaker. Just… quiet. For a little while.” His voice dips, and there’s no bravado now. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not gonna crawl out of my own skin.”
The way he says it—it’s not a confession meant for pity. It’s just a fact. A truth he’s used to carrying alone.
“Does it help?” I ask, not accusing, not gentle either.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Until it doesn’t. Then you need more.”
I take a drag, letting the smoke sit in my lungs before I pass it to him. He takes it without hesitation, like we’ve been sharing this moment for years instead of minutes.
“You know,” I say, watching the tip flare orange in the dark, “you’re not the only one who wants to flip the switch sometimes.”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s trying to read whether I mean it. “And what’s your hum sound like?”
It catches me off guard—how earnest the question is. “Like…” I look down, my own thoughts unraveling in the quiet. “Like I’m running out of time. Like I have to be… more. Do more. Or I’ll wake up one day and realize I never got to live my life the way I wanted.”
He nods, slow, like he understands that in a way words can’t touch.
We fall quiet, not the awkward kind but the kind where you can feel the weight of what’s been said still hanging between you. He leans back, stretching his legs out, and I catch the faint scent of whiskey clinging to his hoodie.
“You ever think,” he says eventually, voice low, “that maybe we’re not meant to be better?”
I glance at him, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just scared of what happens if we try.”
His eyes linger on me longer this time. And for a second, I swear it feels like we’re the only two people left in the world.
“My dad…” He lets out a dry laugh that isn’t funny. “You probably think I hate him. Some days I think I do, too. But it’s worse than that. It’s like he’s… untouchable. Untouchable in a way that makes you want him to look at you, even when you know he won’t. Or if he does, it’s just to see if you’re still useful.”
I don’t interrupt. I just take another drag and pass it to him, watching the way his hands tremble when he takes it.
He exhales, eyes unfocused. “You grow up thinking your dad’s supposed to protect you. But in my house, it was more like… you protect yourself, or you get eaten alive. And the part that screws with you the most? You still want him to be proud. Even when you’re the one bleeding.”
The words hit something raw in me, something I keep buried. I lean back, feeling the wood of the chair press into my spine. “Yeah. Moms can be the same way. Just… different tactics. Mine—she’s not the type to yell or throw shit. She just knows exactly where to aim, exactly what to say to make you feel small. Like I could be standing right in front of her, and she’s still looking through me.”
He glances over, and there’s something in his eyes—recognition. “Guess we both got the premium package.”
He stands, I guess to leave and pushes off from the railing, swaying slightly before he even gets two steps forward. I catch it immediately.
“Careful,” I mutter, reaching for his elbow.
“I’ve got it,” he slurs, waving me off like my hands are an insult.
“Uh-huh,” I say, tugging him gently to steady him. He stumbles again, and this time I don’t even argue. My hand slides around his waist, supporting him more than he probably wants. His shoulder brushes mine, and for a second the world shrinks to this unsteady space where it’s just us, close, warm, and awkwardly silent.
“You’re too close,” he murmurs, and I catch the hint of a smirk in his voice.
“I’m saving your ass,” I point out, rolling my eyes.
He sways against me, close enough that I can feel his breath, and I notice the way his gaze dips for a heartbeat too long. The tension almost… stretches into something else. My heart kicks, and I swear I can see it reflected in his eyes too.
I clear my throat, forcing a laugh. “Seriously, though—now who’s taking care of who?”
He grunts, “You’re relentless,” he mutters, but there’s no bite this time, just a rough kind of admiration.
“Yeah,” I reply, smirking. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
He lets out a dry laugh and leans back against the rail, finally steady. “Guess you do.”
And just like that, the almost-moment breaks, replaced by the thrum of the night around us and the faint scent of the sea drifting up.
He pushes off from the railing again, and I’m right behind him—more like shadowing than following—because the way he’s moving screams about to eat it .
We barely make it a few steps before Sarah appears out of nowhere, arms crossed like she’s been waiting for this.
“Oh, fantastic,” she says, voice dripping with annoyance. “You’re wasted. Again.”
Rafe’s head snaps toward her, a crooked smirk already on his face. “Relax, Mom. I’m just enjoying myself.”
Sarah doesn’t even blink. “You look like you’re auditioning for a DUI commercial.”
“I walk fine,” he says, taking one exaggerated step forward—only to list sideways into me.
“Yep,” I mutter, catching him. “Nailed it.”
Sarah rolls her eyes and grabs his other arm without asking. “Come on. You’re not about to faceplant on my watch.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he snaps, trying to pull away.
“No,” she fires back, “you need a leash.”
That gets him to chuckle—low and mean—but he still stumbles, letting both of us keep him upright. “You two really think you’re doing something here, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, tightening my hold as he sways again, “keeping you from breaking your neck.”
He gives me a sidelong look, smirk lazy. “Cute that you care.”
Sarah groans. “God, you’re unbearable when you drink.”
“I’m unbearable all the time,” he says, like it’s a badge of honor.
I roll my eyes, and Sarah just mutters something under her breath about regretting ever leaving the house, but we keep dragging him forward, step by step.
We’ve barely made it down the front steps before Rafe slows, eyes flicking toward the driveway.
“My car’s not staying here.”
Sarah exhales like she’s already over it. “I can drive it.”
That earns her a sharp laugh—humorless, sharp. “Yeah, no. I’d rather torch it.”
She narrows her eyes. “Fine. Then get it tomorrow.”
“I can drive,” I say, because at this point someone has to.
His head swivels toward me, slow and deliberate. “You?” He lets the word hang there, dripping with disbelief. “Not a chance.”
Sarah crosses her arms. “It’s better than you collapsing in the street.”
“She’s right,” I add, mostly to push his buttons.
He scoffs, muttering something that sounds like, “Right, the dream team,” under his breath.
Sarah ignores him. “Either she drives, or we leave it.”
Rafe stares at us like we’re the two worst people he’s ever met—and somehow, he’s the one bleeding inconvenience. “Fine,” he says finally, voice low and venom-laced, but he doesn’t fight when we steer him toward the curb.
Sarah buckles herself into the passenger seat, twisting toward me as soon as we pull away from Topper’s street.
“Okay, now spill. What happened with Topper?”
A slow grin tugs at my mouth, but I keep my eyes on the road. “Depends. You want the short version or the one with all the details?”
“All the details, obviously.”
“Are we seriously talking about Topper?” Rafe’s voice cuts in from the backseat, rough and amused in equal measure. “Because that’s exactly what my night needed. More fan club updates about my friend .”
Sarah shoots him a glare over her shoulder. “Do you want me to leave you on the side of the road? Because I will.”
He laughs — dry, almost a bark. “Relax, Mom. I’m just saying… there are better topics. Like why my car currently feels like a funeral procession.”
“I’m not driving slow,” I mutter, still not looking at him.
“Kie, an old lady with a walker would be passing us right now.”
I ignore him and lean a little toward Sarah. “Like I was saying… yeah, we kissed.” Sarah’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile — until her brother pipes up again. “Great. Thanks for the visual. Really needed that.”
She exhales, flicking her gaze back to me in a silent
we’ll talk later
.
“I’ll tell you later,” she says under her breath. “Not worth it with him like this.”
“With me like what?” Rafe leans forward, the seatbelt straining slightly, his words slurred but still sharp. “Talkative? Honest? ’Cause normally I don’t feel like saying anything… but right now—” He lets it trail off, wearing that crooked smirk that never quite reaches his eyes.
Sarah side-eyes him. “Yeah, it’s weird. Normally when you’re drunk, you go quiet and get unbearable. Tonight you’re just unbearable.”
He chuckles low, almost to himself. “Guess I’m having fun.”
The way he says it makes it sound like it has nothing to do with the conversation.
By the time we climb the hill toward Tannyhill, the air in the car feels thick — the kind of heavy silence where no one’s really relaxed. I turn into the drive, headlights sweeping over the big house, and there he is: Ward's car.
“Fuck,” Sarah mutters, sitting up straighter. “Dad’s home.”
In the backseat, Rafe’s smirk deepens into something almost unreadable. “Perfect. Just what I needed.”
“Yeah, and you can’t let him see you like this,” Sarah shot back. “It’ll turn into a scene in under thirty seconds.”
Kiara glanced at her in the rearview. “So what’s the plan?”
Sarah turned toward her. “I go in first, get him in his office. Keep him there. You bring Rafe around the back and upstairs while I’m distracting him.”
Kiara frowned. “Why do I have to be the one—”
“Because if he sees me dragging him through the house, he’ll know something’s up. You, not so much.”
Rafe smirked, leaning back. “Look at that, Kie—stuck with me again.”
“Lucky me,” she muttered.
Sarah was already unbuckling. “Two minutes. Count them, then get him inside. And keep it quiet.”
“I’m not exactly a quiet guy,” Rafe said, grin widening.
“Yeah,” Kiara muttered, killing the engine, “we’re aware.”
Sarah slipped out and shut the door softly, disappearing toward the front porch.
Two minutes crawl by before I finally push the door open. I check the front of the house—clear—then circle around to his side.
“Come on,” I mutter, slipping a hand under his arm to steady him.
He makes this low noise in his throat, somewhere between amusement and mockery. “What is this, date night? You’re holding me like—”
“Shut up,” I hiss, dragging him forward. He stumbles once, twice, leaning into me more than he’ll ever admit.
We make it to the back porch and I stop, turning him toward me before we go inside. My hands come up, gripping his face before he can twist away.
“Look, asshole,” I say, low and sharp. “I’m sure you know this isn’t a joke. If your dad finds out, it’s going to be a huge problem. And I know you hate that. So, for once in your life, shut up. Your sister and I are doing this to help you. I expect at least a coin-sized amount of gratitude.”
Something flickers in his smirk, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Good.” I let him go. “Let’s move.”
The kitchen’s dark and quiet—no Ward. I guide him up the back stairs, step by step, until we’re at his door.
I hesitate before opening it. I’ve never been in Rafe’s room before—not that I’ve ever wanted to. It’s cleaner than I expected, though not spotless. The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled. There’s a desk with papers scattered across it and a few golf tees tossed like they were emptied from a pocket without thinking. The air smells faintly of cologne, layered with salt and something sharper—gun oil, maybe.
One wall is covered in framed photos and trophies; another is lined with books that don’t quite match the person I’ve built in my head.
I hate that I’m noticing any of it. I hate even more that part of me is… seeing him differently. Not forgiving—never that—but catching glimpses of something under all the layers I’ve spent years despising.
Empathy’s a dangerous habit. And I’ve always been cursed with too much of it.
I ease him down onto the edge of the bed, and he pretty much collapses, one arm across his stomach, head lolling to the side like gravity’s got him on a short leash.
“Shoes,” I mutter, crouching to untie them. He doesn’t fight me—doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s got it handled. I pull them off, set them aside, and tug the blanket up over him.
For once, he doesn’t kill the silence with some sarcastic jab. He just watches me, eyes half-lidded but locked on mine, like he’s trying to pin me in place.
“You’ve got… really big eyes,” he mumbles finally, voice slow, like it’s costing him something to talk. “And stupidly long lashes.” His fingers brush the back of my hand—barely there, but enough to make me freeze for a beat.
I snort, shaking my head. “You’re drunk. Shut up.”
He doesn’t. Not right away. His hand just stays there for another second, warm and heavy and… weirdly gentle. Then he says, quietly, “Thanks.”
I nod once. “Sleep.”
Pulling my hand free, I stand. The floorboards creak under me as I head for the door, his uneven breathing already starting to fill the room behind me.
I slipped out of Rafe’s room, the soft click of the door sealing him away in the dark. My steps down the hall felt quieter than they should have, like if I made too much noise, the spell would break and reality would come roaring back.
Sarah’s light spilled into the hallway from a thin crack in her door. I pushed it open.
“He’s asleep,” I said, leaning on the frame. “Didn’t even last thirty seconds.”
She smiled, relieved. “Good.”
I crossed the room and sank onto the edge of her bed. She didn’t waste a second before diving into everything about Topper—how it happened, what he said, the way his hand had lingered just enough to make her question everything. I listened. Or I tried to.
My phone lit up between us, but I ignored it until Sarah’s gaze flicked down. “You should check that.”
It was Cole. It was great meeting you tonight. I hope we can cross paths again soon. Polite. Measured. The kind of message someone sends when they’re trying to be both careful and clear.
I typed back, Yeah, it was great meeting you too. I’d like that. It felt easy enough, like slipping into an old sweater. But my fingers hovered for a moment before I hit send—because the truth was, my mind wasn’t in that conversation at all.
It was still in Rafe’s room.
Still on the weight of him against me, the warmth of his skin under my palms when I held his face, the way his voice softened on that single
thanks
.
I hated that I was replaying it. I hated even more that part of me was dissecting it—searching for something in his tone, in his expression. I’ve spent years hating Rafe Cameron. Years certain there was nothing under the surface worth finding. And now, here I was, wondering if maybe I’d been wrong.
So I did what I’ve always done when I don’t like where my thoughts are headed—I shoved them somewhere else. I thought about JJ, John B, Pope. Wondered if they were out surfing tonight, or sitting on the porch talking trash, or laughing without me. I hadn’t thought about them in almost a month. The worst part? The realization didn’t hurt the way it should have.
Sarah kept talking, her voice pulling me back into the room, into safer territory. Eventually, we were just two girls sprawled on her bed, talking about nothing and everything until the night thinned into the quiet hours.
Somewhere between her laughter and the hush of the house, sleep found us both. But even as I drifted, the echo of that thanks followed me into the dark.
Notes:
Next chapter will probably have a bit of Rafe’s POV. And yeah… Kiara might be catching feelings. Not clear ones, but there’s definitely more curiosity there than she’d admit.
Oh, and the Sarah/Kiara kiss? Yeah, had to include it. It’s canon in my brain that it happened at the Kook year and it was 100% Sarah’s idea.
Chapter 7: Almost Honest
Summary:
“Here’s the thing, Kie,” I go on, softer now, dangerous in the quiet. “You can hate me. You can tell yourself I’m the worst mistake you’d ever make. But you can’t stand there and tell me you don’t feel it too. Not after tonight.”
Her lips part, but no words come out—just silence, thick, suffocating. I let it sit, let it burn, let her drown in it.
Then I finally step back, giving her just enough air to breathe, and laugh under my breath like it’s all some twisted game.
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you keep lying to yourself a little longer.”
And I walk away, shirtless, still smirking, leaving her standing there in the dark with her pulse betraying her.
Notes:
This chapter is a little bit longer and fully Rafe's POV. So enjoy!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
RAFE’S POV
I wake up with my mouth dry as sandpaper and a headache pounding against my skull like someone took a hammer to it. Mornings always feel too bright, but today the light cuts through me like glass. My stomach twists, sour from the alcohol, and I drag a hand over my face, half-expecting it to peel off the night clinging to me. Doesn’t work. It never does.
Fragments crawl back slowly. The party. The music so loud it got under my skin. Sarah spinning around like she’s the main act, Kiara behind her, and me drinking until the room stopped spinning. I’d call it a blur, but no—there are pieces too sharp to forget. Her voice cutting through the noise. The way she looked at me. That part sticks. I hate that it sticks.
It makes me sick. I don’t do this—thinking about someone after the night’s over. I fuck, I drink, I move on. That’s the system. That’s how I keep control. But this? It’s like she carved her way into my head, and I didn’t notice until it was too late.
The sheets feel heavy. The whole room feels heavy. And beneath the headache, beneath the nausea, there’s something else. Something crawling under my ribs that I can’t name. I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. It feels like weakness, and weakness is the one thing I promised myself I’d never allow.
The house is too quiet. That kind of silence that makes every sound sharper—my bare feet on the floorboards, the faint hum of the fridge, the ache of my stomach reminding me I haven’t eaten since… hell, I don’t even remember. I head to the kitchen, half-dead and half-starving, just wanting something to kill the hangover twisting in my gut.
She’s there. Sarah. Sitting at the counter with a bowl of cereal, like she owns the place, like she hasn’t been watching me burn myself alive these last few weeks. Her eyes snap to me the second I walk in. That judgmental stare.
“You’re doing it again,” she says, voice sharp, no hesitation. “Wasting yourself, getting drunk every night, like it’s nothing. Do you even realize what you’re putting me through? What you’re putting everyone through?”
I open the fridge just to ignore her, to keep my back to her. Cold air hits my face, and I grab the first thing I see—an apple, half-wrinkled. “Nobody asked you to save me, Sarah,” I mutter, biting into it hard enough to make my jaw hurt. “You’re not my keeper.”
She pushes the spoon down against the counter with a clatter. “Except I’m the one who has to cover for you, every damn time. I’m the one who has to drag Kiara into this mess, because God forbid you keep yourself under control for once.”
Her name slices through me. Kiara. I don’t even know why it stings the way it does. I swallow the bite too fast, the apple scratching down my throat. My hand tightens around it until my knuckles go white.
“Don’t,” I snap, finally turning toward her. “ That was you. You’re the one who dragged her in. She doesn’t need to clean up after me, and I sure as hell don’t need you parading her around like some fucking savior.”
Sarah’s mouth parts, but I keep going, heat burning through my chest. “You stand there, acting so righteous, when you’re out sneaking around with Topper. Topper, Sarah. My friend. Like that’s something to be proud of.”
Her jaw tightens. I know I’ve hit something raw, but I don’t care. I never know when to stop, not with her.
“You think I don’t see it?” I spit. “You think you’re any better than me? Playing the saint while you crawl into his bed—don’t come at me like you’re clean.”
Sarah’s jaw tightens, and she shakes her head like she can’t believe me.
“You can’t compare those things,” she fires back, her voice sharper now. “Me hanging out with Topper has nothing to do with you drinking yourself sick. You couldn’t even stand up last night, Rafe. What did you expect me to do? Just leave you there for someone else to deal with? You’re my brother. And the worst part is, you act like you’re the victim. You’re never grateful, not once. I’m always the one taking the blame for you, covering for you, and you don’t even see it.”
Her words cut, not because they’re true, but because of the way she says them—like she’s above me. Like she’s the one holding the family together. I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head.
“Don’t act like you do it out of love,” I bite. “You only do it to look good in front of Dad. That’s all this is. You wanna play the saint, the savior, the good kid. Makes you feel better about yourself, doesn’t it? Pretending you’re different from me. But deep down? You know we’re not. Not really.”
Her eyes flash, wet and angry, and for a second I think she might throw something at me. Instead, she steps closer, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she spits. “And I hate you for saying that. I hate you.”
The room goes quiet. I can hear the clock ticking on the wall, the faint clatter of a dish settling in the sink. Her words hang there, heavy, shaking between us.
I smirk, leaning back against the counter, trying to look unaffected even though the sting of it digs deeper than I want to admit.
“Yeah,” I say softly, almost a whisper, but with enough edge to make it cruel. “Get in line.”
The water hits my skin like it’s trying to wash me clean, but it doesn’t work. It never does. I stand there, hands pressed against the tiles, steam rising, and all I can think about is her.
I hate it. I hate that she’s in my head. The way she leaned down, pulled off my shoes like it was nothing. The way she flicked the switch and left me in the dark. The way her eyes didn’t look away when I said the shit I never say out loud. She stayed. She helped.
And that’s the part that’s driving me insane—because help is not for me. Help is weakness, and weakness is something I don’t do. But she made it feel like it wasn’t weakness at all, like it was just….
I slam my fist lightly against the wall, let the water sting harder. This isn’t supposed to happen. I wanted Sarah to pull her close, I wanted them to be friends. I knew it would drag her away from those idiots she calls friends, keep her in my orbit. I played the long game, and it worked. She’s here. Exactly where I wanted her.
But not like this.
It was supposed to be simple—curiosity, attraction, whatever. Something that could burn out in one night, in a kiss, in a fight, in anything but permanence. Something I could control. Something I could end whenever I wanted.
Except now it doesn’t feel like that. Every time she’s around, it digs deeper. She looks at me and I don’t just want her body. I want her eyes on me again, like I’m someone worth seeing. And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because if she can get inside my head like this, she can ruin me. And I can’t let that happen.
So I tell myself I hate her. I repeat it over and over in my head, like it’s a prayer, like it’s armor. But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. And maybe the worst part is… she probably knows it too.
I’m clean, showered, changed. My hair still damp, my shirt clinging faintly to my skin. For a second I almost feel normal—like maybe I rinsed it all off, the fight with Sarah, the memories of Kiara. But that’s bullshit. They don’t wash off.
The quiet in this house is dangerous. My chest tightens before I even realize what’s happening. It’s like a hand curling inside me, pressing against my lungs, my ribs, my throat all at once. I can’t breathe right. I can’t think right.
The voices come fast, overlapping, a thousand echoes that don’t belong to anyone but me. You’re nothing. You’ll never be enough. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. They circle, louder, sharper, cutting at the edges of me until I feel raw, skinned open.
I press my palms hard against my ears, but it doesn’t help—because they’re not out there, they’re in here. My head feels like it’s going to split apart. I need to shut it off. I need silence. I need nothing .
My vision blurs; the world tilts. Every sound is too loud, every shadow too dark, every thought too sharp. I want to crawl out of my own skin, I want to tear the noise away, I want to disappear.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to swallow air, but it scrapes like glass down my throat. My hands tremble, my chest burns, and still the voices hiss. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve anything.
I dig my nails into my arms, into my skin, as if pain could ground me, as if it could drown them out. But nothing stops it. I am the cage, and I am the prisoner.
And all I can think is: I would give anything to make it quiet.
I reach for the little bag in my drawer, the one that’s always waiting. Spread several lines, bend down, and let it burn its way through me. Relief hits sharp and fast, like a switch flipped off. The noise in my skull quiets, the rage blurs, the shame blurs.
Rose.. Dad.
“Fuck.”
I shove the bag back, wipe at my nose, pace like I can undo what I just did. My heart spikes as the door clicks open down the hall. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.
And then—heavy steps outside my door. A knock. My father’s voice.
“Rafe.”
I swallow hard, try to stand straight. Pretend I’m not high. Pretend I can pull it together.
But when the door opens, I know from the look in his eyes—I’m not fooling anyone.
“You think I don’t see it?” His voice is calm, but it’s worse that way, like a knife pressed slow against my skin. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing in this room, in this house? Jesus Christ, Rafe. You’re so obvious.”
I clench my jaw, force myself not to flinch. “I’m fine.” My voice cracks, betrays me. “I got it under control.”
His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Under control? Look at yourself. High in the middle of the goddamn day, sitting here like some useless junkie. You can’t even keep your head straight, and you expect me to trust you with anything?”
The words dig in deeper than I want them to. I snap back because it’s all I can do. “What the fuck do you expect, huh? You think I asked for this shit? You think I wanted to grow up in your perfect little empire, watching you treat Sarah like the golden child while I’m just—what? The fuck-up? The disappointment you never wanted?”
His face twists, anger curdling into something darker. He steps closer, his voice low but slicing. “You are a disappointment. I gave you everything, Rafe. Everything. And this is what you do with it? Blow it up your goddamn nose?”
I almost fire back again, but then he keeps going, and the blade twists deeper.
“You knew tonight mattered. That dinner—it’s for you. For you, Rafe. I invited a client—bringing his whole family into my home—and his wife happens to be the dean of a decent university. Do you have any idea what kind of doors that could open for you? For once, I put the spotlight on you. And where the hell are you? Sitting here, strung out, too wasted to even put on a shirt.”
My stomach drops. The memory hits me like a punch I didn’t see coming—the conversation we had last week, the plans, the way he actually looked me in the eye and told me it was important. I’d nodded, pretended I understood, pretended I’d be there. And then I forgot. Or maybe I buried it under the haze.
“I…” My throat closes around the word.
He doesn’t let me finish. “Do you have any idea how it’s going to look? When they walk in and see you like this? That my son couldn’t even bother to show up to his own dinner? That I’ll have to make excuses for you while they sit there, politely smiling, seeing right through me? You’re going to humiliate me. In my own home. In front of people who matter.”
Something inside me breaks open, ugly and raw. “You never gave me shit. Not you. Not really. You gave me money, boats, houses—none of it was you. None of it was a father. You think I care about your clients, about some dean, about any of this fake bullshit? I don’t. I never did.”
For a second, the silence between us is louder than the words. Then it shifts, violent, his hand hitting me hard across the face. My cheek burns, my head snapping to the side. And just like that, it’s not words anymore.
I shove him back, he grabs me by the shirt, we’re both shouting now, everything spilling out—the hate, the need, the fucking hole I can’t fill.
And I realize, somewhere in the middle of it, this is all I ever get from him. Violence, contempt, the proof I was never enough.
Ward’s hand snaps across my face before I even see it coming. The sting radiates through my jaw, and my ears ring. For a second, I just stand there, stunned, the taste of iron creeping up the back of my throat.
“You think I’m gonna spend the rest of my life taking care of you?” he spits, his voice a razor. “You think I’m gonna wipe your ass when you’re thirty, forty, fifty? You’re pathetic, Rafe. Absolutely pathetic.”
I clench my teeth, but my eyes burn.
“You’ve had every advantage. Every chance. And look at you—high, twitching, wasting yourself. You think I didn’t know? You think you’ve been hiding this from me?” He lets out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “I’ve known from the beginning. I’ve just been waiting for you to prove me wrong. And you haven’t. Not once.”
My chest heaves, words stuck somewhere between fury and desperation. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” he cuts me off, stepping closer, his shadow blotting out the light. “You didn’t mean to? You didn’t ask for this life? Do you have any idea how tired I am of your excuses? You either grow the fuck up and get in line, or you’re out. Do you hear me? OUT. You won’t have this house. You won’t have this family. You won’t have a goddamn cent from me.”
Something in me breaks, splinters down the middle. My throat tightens, eyes hot, my chest hollow.
“Dad…” The word slips before I can swallow it, weak and small, like a child’s.
But Ward doesn’t soften. His face is stone, hard as it’s ever been. “Cry all you want. Won’t change a damn thing. You want to live like a junkie, then you can die like one. Out there. On the street. Without my name. Without my money.”
The tears prick harder, and I blink them back, jaw trembling. For the first time in forever, I feel small—like maybe I really will end up with nothing, no one.
“If you don't want that, fix it, you have exactly one hour. You are a man, act fucking like it”
My face is still burning where his hand landed. I can feel it pulsing, like the echo of his voice is trapped under my skin. I want to hate him. I want to scream, throw something, punch a hole in the wall. But all I can hear is him, over and over: pathetic, useless, junkie.
And the worst part is—I believe him.
I try to tell myself I’m not. That I could get it together if I really wanted to. But when have I ever proved him wrong? Not once. Every time I had the chance, I fucked it up.
I thought maybe, maybe he’d see me trying. Maybe he’d notice. But all he sees is failure. All he sees is this… broken version of me that I can’t shake off.
The idea of him throwing me out—of me out there with nothing—hits harder than the slap. I picture it: no money, no home, no name. Just another ghost drifting until I burn out. And I wonder if that’s all I’m good for.
I tell myself not to cry. I don’t cry. Not for him. Not for anyone. But my chest feels tight, like if I breathe too deep, everything will spill out. And I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him be right about me being weak.
So I just stand there, fists curled, nails biting into my palms, swallowing it down until it burns. Because if I fall apart now, then maybe I really am the nothing he says I am.
And I can’t—fuck, I can’t let that be the truth. So I'll be the son he wants me to be, for today, to prove him wrong.
I drag myself into the bathroom, hands trembling like they don’t belong to me. The mirror doesn’t lie. My pupils blown wide, skin pale and slick with sweat, jaw tight like I’ve been grinding it all day. I splash cold water over my face, over and over, hoping it’ll wash something away, hoping it’ll erase what’s clawing at the inside of my skull.
I grab a towel, rub hard, almost like I can scrub the high out of my skin. My chest is heaving, breaths too shallow, too fast. “Get it together,” I mutter, the words sticking in my throat. “Just… fucking pull it together.”
But then the other voice cuts in, the one that always does. What’s the point? He already thinks you’re nothing. Already thinks you’re the fuck-up. You’ll walk down there, smile, shake some hands, and he’ll still look right through you. He always does.
My stomach twists. The urge hits me—sharp, reckless. If you already blew it, why not keep blowing it? Why not ride it out, numb it out, because nothing you do will ever be enough anyway.
My hands slam the counter, the sound snapping through the room. I stare at myself, eyes wild, veins throbbing in my neck. I could fall into it so easy. Just let it take me under.
But then the fear creeps in. Real, cold. Because for all the talk, for all the fuck-yous I throw at him, I know one thing—without him, I’ve got nothing. No house. If Ward cuts me off, I’m just another addict with nowhere to go.
I lean closer to the mirror, force myself to breathe slower, deeper. The panic claws at me, but I shove it down, bury it under the mask. “You can’t blow this,” I whisper, my voice raw. “Not tonight. Not if you want to survive.”
I slick my hair back, try to fix the red rims of my eyes. Cologne, clean shirt, straight shoulders. It’s all theater, but it has to be. I’ve been playing roles my whole life—perfect son, golden heir, the guy who’s fine, who’s got it under control.
And maybe that’s all tonight is. One more act. One more chance.
Even if the cracks are already showing.
I straighten my shirt one last time before I push the door open to his office. The air in there is always heavy—cigars, leather, power. He’s behind the desk, like always, papers spread out, glass of bourbon in his hand. He doesn’t even look up when I step in.
“I’m ready,” I say, steadying my voice even though my jaw is still twitching.
Finally, his eyes lift to me, cold first, then narrowing. He scans me the way you’d look at a cracked vase in a store—deciding if it’s worth paying for or just tossing out. “Ready,” he repeats, voice sharp. “You’ve been ready before. And you’ve managed to prove me wrong every time.”
My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. “I won’t tonight.”
He sets the glass down, leans back in his chair. That look—measured, heavy, the kind that cuts deeper than shouting ever could. “Do you even understand what’s at stake here? This dinner… it isn’t a game, Rafe. These people matter. And if you embarrass me, if you embarrass this family again…”
The words hang there like a guillotine.
My throat tightens, but I nod. “I won’t.”
For a second, I think he’ll keep going, keep tearing me down. But then his tone shifts, softens in that twisted way only he can pull. He sighs, folds his hands together, eyes almost fatherly now. “Look, son… I know I’ve been hard on you. Cruel, maybe. But you have to understand—it’s because I see more in you than you see in yourself. You have potential, Rafe. But potential means nothing if you waste it.”
It’s manipulation. I know it. Every fiber of me knows it. But the kid in me—the one who used to beg for his approval—still leans into it. I nod again, slower this time, like I believe him.
He stands, smooths his jacket. “Good. Then let’s go.” He gestures toward the door, brushing past me first, leading the way. “They’ll be here soon, and when they arrive, I want them to see a son I can be proud of. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” My voice cracks just a little, but he doesn’t notice—or he pretends not to.
We step out of the office together, his hand briefly on my shoulder, firm but heavy, guiding me like he always does. Down the hall, toward the living room, where the house feels staged and waiting, like a set before the actors arrive.
And I know the show’s about to start.
We’re sitting in the living room, silence thick as smoke. Ward scrolls through his phone, pretending he isn’t watching me, pretending he trusts me to sit still. My leg won’t stop bouncing, my chest still feels raw from earlier. Every second stretches, pulling tighter. I hate waiting.
The front door opens and voices float in. Sarah’s voice—bright, easy. And then another one, softer, but sharp enough to cut straight through me. Kiara.
They walk in with shopping bags like it’s just another afternoon. My stomach knots. The first thing out of my mouth, sharp and bitter, is to my dad.
“Sarah’s gonna be here? At the dinner?”
Ward doesn’t even look up. “Of course. She’s my daughter. You both are. Tonight is about family.”
Family. The word tastes sour.
My eyes flick to Kiara, and for a second I forget how to breathe. She’s in something casual, nothing fancy, but it doesn’t matter—she looks good. Too good. And it pisses me off, because the last thing I need right now is her here, standing in my living room, looking like that, when I’m barely holding it together.
Kiara catches on quick. Her brows pull together, the corners of her mouth tight. “You know what? Maybe I should just go. This looks… family-only. I don’t wanna get in the way.”
Sarah steps forward instantly. “No. Stay. Please. You’re with me. It’s fine.”
Kiara shakes her head, her voice firmer this time. “I don’t think so, Sarah. I don’t wanna make things weird.”
Before I can breathe out the relief clawing at my throat, Ward finally looks up, all charm and polished warmth. “Kiara, nonsense. You’re welcome here. Sarah wants you here, which means I do too. Tonight’s not just about business—it’s about connection. Please, stay.”
She hesitates, eyes flicking between Sarah, my dad, and me. I can feel my jaw tightening, my pulse hammering. Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d invite her in, make her feel comfortable, like it costs him nothing. Meanwhile I’m sitting here, trying not to unravel, watching him hand over a place at the table to the one person who makes it harder for me to keep my walls up.
I lean back on the couch, chewing the inside of my cheek. Defensive. Wound-up. Already ready to fight. Because if she stays, this night just got a whole lot harder.
The knock at the door comes sharp, echoing through the house like a gunshot. Ward straightens immediately, all smiles now, polished charm snapping into place. “That’ll be Richard,” he says, as if the name alone should be carved in marble.
Rose sweeps into the room just in time, pearls at her throat, perfume filling the air like another layer of armor. Sarah shifts beside Kiara, who’s already edging toward the door again, as if she could still slip out before anyone notices. Ward catches her with one glance—warm, commanding. “Stay,” he tells her softly, but it’s not a request.
The front door opens, and there he is. Richard. Everything about him screams money, control, a mirror of Ward in some twisted way. His wife–Ashley, floats in on his arm, sharp-eyed, polished, her presence radiating authority. I can tell instantly she’s the kind of woman who could cut you open with a single sentence.
But then—then I see him.
Cole. He is the son.
He steps in behind them, tall, confident in that quiet, unassuming way that makes people trust him without even realizing why. Clean-cut, clear-eyed, no sharp edges, no chaos clinging to him like smoke. And the way Kiara’s face lights up when she sees him—Jesus Christ—it’s like someone punched me straight in the gut. Surprise, then something dangerously close to excitement flashes in her eyes.
Of course. Of fucking course.
My dad spreads his arms, the perfect host. “Richard, Ashley, welcome. This is my family—my wife Rose, my children, Sarah and Rafe.” He pauses, too long, savoring the shape of it. “And this is Kiara, Sarah’s closest friend. Practically family herself.”
Richard shakes my hand, firm, approving. Ashley nods politely. But my eyes don’t move from Kiara. Or from Cole, who steps toward her like they already share some secret. Her laugh is small, caught off guard, but it twists in me like a knife.
I clench my jaw so hard it aches. My father, smiling, orchestrating every piece of this perfect little scene, has no idea—or maybe he does—that it feels like he’s lit a match and tossed it straight into me.
But all I can think is: I want to rip that smile off his face.
Dinner starts polite, quiet. Silverware clinking against china, glasses being filled, Ward already deep in business talk with Richard like he’s been waiting all week for this moment. I barely taste the food—everything feels staged, like the table’s been set not just for celebration, but for some goddamn performance.
And right on cue, Ward shifts the spotlight.
“My son, Rafe, he’s got quite the talent in lacrosse,” he says, pride lacing every word, like I’m some trophy on the mantle. “Recruiters from UNC already keeping an eye on him.”
Ashley turns her attention to me, smiling too wide. “Oh, really? Well, that’s wonderful. I have a close friend on the board there, I could always put in a word for you.”
I force a polite smile, mutter, “Thanks, ma’am, appreciate it.” My tone even, polite, like it should be. But my eyes—they’re not on her.
They’re locked on Kiara.
She’s leaning slightly toward Cole, her hand brushing the edge of her glass, that natural way she laughs that doesn’t belong in this stiff dining room. He’s sitting directly across from her, across from us , and every time he says something that makes her smile, my jaw tightens a little more.
Sarah’s on Kiara’s other side, giggling now and then, egging them on like she’s playing matchmaker at her own damn family dinner. I want to kick her under the table.
He says something about Charleston, about Boston, and she nods, curious. “Really? I’ve never been,” she says, and he grins like he’s just won a medal.
I can’t stop myself. “Dont you hate the cold kiara?” I cut in, my fork scraping against the plate. “You'll hate it. Freezes too easy.”
Cole blinks, caught off guard. Kiara turns her head slowly, her brows furrowing like she can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Oh, uh—well, it’s not that bad,” Cole says with a laugh, recovering. “Winters are tough, yeah, but there’s a charm to it.”
Sarah shifts in her seat, shooting me a sharp look. “What’s wrong with you?” she hisses, voice low but cutting, carrying just enough to make my skin crawl.
Kiara shifts uncomfortably, trying to steer the conversation back, but every time Cole leans in, I find a way to insert myself—details about her favorite surf spot, about the dumb little traditions she keeps, things I shouldn’t even remember but do.
Because fuck Cole.
And fuck the way she’s smiling at him.
Ward keeps going. He’s still in full-on host mode, smiling that perfect Cameron smile, glass of wine in hand, weaving my life into this neat little package for Richard and Ashley to admire.
“Rafe’s always been good at presenting ideas,” my father says, like I’m some polished product on display. “Sharp mind. In debate class, the teachers tell me he can turn an argument inside out. Not only that, but he’s excellent with numbers. Golf too—he picked it up faster than I did.”
Richard chuckles, Ashley leans in, too interested, too approving. “Well, that’s a rare combination. Discipline in sports and academics,” she says.
Her words should land like compliments, but to me they feel like weights pressing against my chest. I mutter a “Thanks,” forcing something like a polite smile, but my eyes drift right back where they shouldn’t—Kiara.
She’s laughing with Cole. Sarah is in the bathroom I think. Kiara's shoulders are relaxed, her voice soft in that way she uses when she’s being friendly. Cole has her attention, and it’s driving me fucking insane.
The table stills for half a second, then the conversation resumes, Ward smoothly steering things forward, but I can feel his eyes flick toward me. Watching. Measuring.
My chest tightens. The compliments, the forced small talk, Sarah’s voice, Kiara’s laugh—everything’s pressing in at once. My pulse hammers in my ears, my hands balling under the table until my knuckles ache. I feel like I’m suffocating in this perfectly decorated dining room, surrounded by polished silver and polite smiles.
I can’t explode. Not here. Not in front of them.
I push my chair back, swallowing the heat rising in my throat. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, voice tight. “Bathroom.”
I don’t wait for a response. I stand, forcing myself to walk, not run, out of that room. My palms are damp, jaw locked, lungs searching for air that doesn’t taste like wine and pressure and her laughter directed at someone else.
I lean against the wall of the porch, pressing my palms into the wood as if I can ground myself there. Calm down. Calm the fuck down. But the harder I tell myself, the worse it gets. My heart’s jackhammering, my ears ringing with echoes of laughter, voices, forks on porcelain. Cole’s face, my father’s praise, Sarah’s whisper—everything overlapping, everything too loud even though I’m out here alone.
“Rafe.”
Her voice.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck… no.” My throat is raw, the words shredded. She followed me.
I don’t have to look to know it’s her. The soft click of her shoes, the hesitation in her steps. She’s here. Kiara. Of course she’s here.
“Rafe,” she says again, lower this time, careful.
“I don’t—.” My chest heaves, every inhale sharp, useless. My hands tremble against the railing. I hate it—I hate that she’s seeing me like this, cracked open, weak. “Just go back inside.”
But she doesn’t. I hear her move closer. And then—warmth. A hand, light, steady, sliding over mine where it grips the wood too hard. Her fingers anchor me, not pulling, not forcing, just there.
“Hey,” she whispers, like I might break if she’s too loud. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me, yeah?”
“I—can’t—” The words stumble out between gasps. My vision’s gone blurry, the porch light swimming.
“Yes, you can.” Her tone shifts, firmer, the edge I know she carries. “Look at me.”
It takes everything, but I do. Her eyes catch mine, dark and steady. She pulls in a slow inhale, exaggerated, holds it, then exhales like she’s teaching me. She does it again, waiting.
I try. My lungs fight, stuttering, but her gaze doesn’t waver. Her thumb brushes over my hand—barely there, but enough.
“That’s it,” she murmurs when I catch one full breath. “Again.”
Little by little, the air starts to stick. My chest still aches, but the iron grip loosens. The world narrows—no clinking glasses, no father’s eyes, no Cole’s smirk. Just her hand over mine, her breath steady, pulling me back into rhythm.
Her hands are still on me. My chest isn’t hammering like before, but I can feel the ghost of it—each breath dragging heavy, too raw. I shouldn’t let her see me like this. I shouldn’t let anyone see me like this.
But she doesn’t let go. Not yet. And I don’t either.
For a second it feels like the air between us changes—thick, electric. Her face is too close. Her eyes on mine. My hand twitches like it wants to cup her jaw, and it terrifies me because I almost let it happen.
I lean in—almost. Too close, too much.
And then she pulls back. Sharp. Controlled. She clears her throat, eyes darting away, as if slamming a door we both almost walked through.
“We should go back,” she says softly, but firm. “Your dad’s waiting. Don’t ruin this. It’s important to you.”
Important to me. The words dig deeper than I want them to. Because she’s right. And because I hate that she knows it.
I swallow, force myself to nod. Pretend the moment didn’t just burn itself into me. Pretend I can breathe normal again.
She turns first, like she always does, leading me out of the shadow of the hallway. And before I know it, she takes my hand—steady, grounding, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
We walk. Step after step back to the table, where I’m supposed to be the polished Cameron son. But before we get there, I squeeze her hand once, low enough no one can see, and murmur, “Thank you. Really.”
She glances at me then—just a glance, but it’s enough. She smiles. Small, real. And it guts me.
We walk in together. Like nothing happened. Like everything did.
I can’t shake it. Whatever the hell just happened between me and Kiara out there—it’s still burning in my head. The way she held me there, the way she pulled me back down to earth when I was already halfway to setting the whole place on fire. I sit back at the table, and for the first time all night, I’m not plotting a scene. My hands stay steady. My jaw unclenches. Even when Cole keeps leaning toward her, flashing that easy grin like she’s already his—I let it slide. I don’t snap, I don’t break a glass, I don’t storm out. I just breathe. It’s terrifying, honestly, how much I need that anchor she gave me, how much calmer I am because of her. Depending on someone like that—it’s dangerous.
Dinner winds down, wine glasses emptying, the soft hum of business talk wrapping up. One by one, people start leaving. When Cole stands, he gives Kiara this little smile that’s all hope and suggestion. “I hope I see you again soon.” His voice has that edge of promise.
Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, forcing a polite smile. “Good to see you, man.” The words come out clipped, sharper than I meant, but I toss them like a dismissal dressed in courtesy. He nods, but he knows. I meant it as get lost .
When the door finally closes behind the last guest, Ward claps me on the shoulder. His eyes cut into me like he’s searching for a crack, some mistake to hold against me. Instead, he says, “You had your ups and downs tonight, but then again… you wouldn’t be Rafe without them. Overall, you did good. I’m proud of you, son.”
For a second, I can’t move. I just stand there, stunned. Proud of you. The words echo, filling every hollow place inside me. I almost laugh because—holy shit—I pulled it off. I fixed it. I didn’t blow the whole thing up.
Kiara’s already pulling out her phone, calling her dad, but Sarah practically bounces over, tugging at her arm. “No, no, stay. Seriously, Kie, don’t go yet. I want to watch that movie with you—we couldn’t even talk tonight ‘cause you were busy flirting with Cole the whole time.”
Kiara rolls her eyes, groaning. “Sarah, tomorrow’s Monday. I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. We’ll go to school together in the morning. Your parents aren’t even home, they won’t care. Please? Just one night.” Sarah’s relentless, that sweet pleading voice she always uses when she knows she’s going to win.
Kiara sighs, and I already know she’s caving before the words leave her mouth. “Fine. But only because you’re insufferable when you beg.”
Sarah squeals, hugging her. “Knew it. Best night ever.”
And just like that, Kiara stays.
I’m lying in bed, the room too quiet, too still. My head won’t shut up—her face keeps flashing in the dark. Kiara. The way her hand steadied mine, the way her voice cut through the storm inside me like it was nothing. It makes no sense—how she can flip a switch in me, stop the chaos, calm me down in ways I don’t even understand. And now I can’t sleep, not with the need to taste her burning in my head.
I turn onto my back, stare at the ceiling, jaw tight. My chest rises too fast, restless. I want her. I want her too much.
Then I hear it. The soft creak of the door across the hall. Light footsteps, slow, careful. It’s her. I know it’s her. Sarah wouldn’t leave her room this late.
A rush hits me—adrenaline, electricity. This is it. My chance.
I push myself up, moving before I can think better of it. My hand grips the door handle and I slip out, quiet. The house is dark, shadows stretching along the walls, and then I see her—Kiara, moving down the hallway, alone.
She doesn’t notice me at first. I let myself watch for a second—the curve of her shoulders, the loose fall of her hair, how she’s barefoot, silent. My chest tightens.
Then I step closer. “Can’t sleep?” My voice cuts the silence.
She startles, turning quick, eyes wide until she sees me. She exhales, annoyed. “Jesus, Rafe. You scared me.”
I lean against the wall, smirk tugging at my mouth even though I’m not calm at all. “You’re the one sneaking around in the middle of the night.”
Her jaw sets, but she doesn’t move away. That’s all I need. I push off the wall, step into her space, just close enough so she has to look up at me. The air shifts—thick, charged.
“Thought maybe you were trying to avoid me,” I say, lower now, rougher.
Her lips part like she’s about to fire back, but nothing comes out. She just swallows, caught.
And fuck, that’s all the confirmation I need. She feels it too—the pull, the mess, the want.
I tilt my head, close enough now that I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath hitches. “You don’t have to pretend, Kiara,” I murmur. “I know you care.”
Her eyes flicker, defenses cracking for a split second, and I swear my pulse spikes so hard it’s painful.
That sound fuels me. I tilt my head, eyes locked on her lips now. God, I want to taste her. It’s right there, hers and mine, a collision waiting to happen. My chest presses forward, her back grazing the wall.
Her palm presses against my chest—not shoving, just… holding me there. Her eyes flicker up to mine, wide, restless, searching.
“What are you doing?” she breathes, barely above a whisper. “What do you even want from me?”
The words crack between us, and I swear I feel them sink into my skin. She’s not ordering me off—she’s asking, and that makes it worse. Makes it dangerous.
I lower my mouth until it almost grazes hers, my breath mixing with hers, my voice rough. “You already know what I want.”
For half a second, she freezes, lips parted, pulse racing beneath her skin. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop me. And I can feel it—her hesitation, her pull toward me.
Then, like snapping awake, she exhales sharply and pushes me back, enough to reclaim the distance. Her eyes are glassy, angry and shaken all at once.
“You’re impossible,” she spits, trying to make it sound like fury, but her voice still quivers.
“Here’s the thing, Kie,” I go on, softer now, dangerous in the quiet. “You can hate me. You can tell yourself I’m the worst mistake you’d ever make. But you can’t stand there and tell me you don’t feel it too. Not after tonight.”
Her lips part, but no words come out—just silence, thick, suffocating. I let it sit, let it burn, let her drown in it.
Then I finally step back, giving her just enough air to breathe, and laugh under my breath like it’s all some twisted game.
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you keep lying to yourself a little longer.”
And I walk away, shirtless, still smirking, leaving her standing there in the dark with her pulse betraying her.
I close the door behind me and lean my forehead against it, breathing like I’ve been running. My chest won’t calm down. My skin still burns where she was, where her voice cut through me. I laugh under my breath, sharp, broken, but real. My hands drag through my hair because I don’t know what else to do with them—I can’t stay still.
She’s still on me. Everywhere. The way she flinched, the way she pushed back. Christ. It wasn’t much, barely anything, just her breath brushing mine, but it’s enough. Enough to prove I’m not imagining this, that there’s something alive between us. That she sees me, whether she wants to or not.
“Fuck,” I whisper, and for once it’s not anger. It’s… relief. It’s something close to joy, twisted and unfamiliar in my mouth.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, and I realize I’m smiling. Actually smiling like a fool. Because for the first time in I don’t know how long, I want something more than the high, more than the numbness. I want her. And to have her, I have to be better. I have to be the version of myself I’ve never managed to hold on to—the one who isn’t a junkie, who isn’t a fuck-up, who isn’t just Ward’s disappointment.
And the wildest thing is… I want that.
She thinks she makes me flinch. Maybe she does. But the truth is—I need that. I need to feel it sober. Every ounce of this hunger, this ache, this madness in my veins. Because it’s her. Because it’s real.
I swallow, jaw tight, the ghost of her heat still on my skin. I don’t press further. I don’t need to. Because now I know—she’s rattled. She felt it too.
I flip onto my side, jaw clenched, hand fisting the sheet. Every nerve in me is awake, raw. I can still feel the heat of her skin where I caged her in, the way she didn’t move until the very last second. She wanted to know why. She will know soon .
The next morning, I wake up grinning. Like actually grinning. Which is fucked, because there’s nothing funny about tossing all night with one thought on repeat: Kiara.
I stretch, grab my phone, and there it is: a text from Kate.
Pick me up?
Kate. Convenient, uncomplicated. She’s not my girl—never has been—but she’s always there when I want her. And right now, she’s more than that. She’s leverage.
Because I know exactly how this morning will go: Dad won’t have time to drive Sarah and her little shadow. And if I offer, they’ll have no choice. They’ll pile into my car. Which means Kiara, trapped with me.
And with Kate sitting in the passenger seat? Even better.
Not because I care about Sarah’s reaction—she can glare all she wants—but because I want to see Kiara’s. Where exactly she has me filed in her head.
I text Kate back, Yeah. Be ready at 7:45.
Downstairs, Sarah’s already in a mood, slamming cabinet doors like it’s the house’s fault Dad forgot about her ride again. I sip my coffee, leaning against the counter, waiting for the opening.
“You need a ride, don’t you?” I ask, smooth, like I’m doing her a favor.
She pauses, suspicious. “Since when do you offer?”
“Since I feel like it.” I shrug.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue. Too desperate to get out on time.
And Kiara—quiet in the corner with her bowl—hesitates. Just a flicker, like she’s deciding if it’s worth stepping into my world, my space. Then she nods, casual, pretending it doesn’t matter.
But I saw it. That slip.
And that’s all I need.
The ride starts off… fine. Sarah and Kiara are in the back, whispering and laughing about something stupid—music, movies, whatever. I let them. I don’t even look in the mirror, but my ears are tuned in. Always are, when it’s her.
I tap my fingers on the wheel, casual. Then, like it’s no big deal, I say,
“By the way, we’re making a stop. Picking someone up.”
Sarah immediately snaps, “You’re kidding. Tell me it’s not her.”
I smirk. Exactly the reaction I expected. “Yeah, Kate.”
“Rafe!” Sarah groans, throwing herself against the seat. “Why the hell are you bringing her? She’s desperate, she clings to you like—”
“Who’s Kate?” Kiara cuts in.
Not annoyed. Not indifferent. Curious. Her voice sharper than I thought it would be. My grip tightens on the wheel. That’s even better than I pictured.
Before I can answer, Sarah jumps in, venom sweet on her tongue:
“Some girl. The kind who doesn’t get it when someone’s not interested. She’s pathetic, trust me.”
Kiara’s eyebrows lift, her lips pressing into a line. She doesn’t say more, but she doesn’t need to. I feel her attention settle on me.
“Quit complaining, Sarah,” I say, my tone flat, final. “She needed a ride. End of story.”
Sarah mutters under her breath. Kiara stays quiet, but I can feel it—the shift. The weight of her curiosity.
We pull up outside Kate’s place, and right on cue, she comes out all smiles, way too much perfume clouding the air. She leans into the car like it’s her stage.
“Hey, guys!” she chirps, waving at Sarah and Kiara in the back like she’s doing them a favor by acknowledging them. Then she turns to me, giving me a kiss on the cheek like it’s already hers to claim.
I don’t flinch. Don’t smile. I just let it happen, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
I know what I did—it wasn’t subtle. Dropping Kate’s name, making Sarah complain, letting Kie bite the hook. And now? Now she’s confused. Probably mad at herself for even caring. She’s gonna sit there wondering if she overreacted, if she gave me too much.
Good. Let her question it. Let her question herself.
Because the second she doubts, I win. I’m in her head. She’ll replay it—Sarah calling Kate desperate, Kate leaning in, kissing my cheek like she owns it. She’ll hate that she noticed. Hate that she gave me that piece of her attention.
And me? I’ll feed off it. I’ll keep it alive.
It’s messed up, yeah. Maybe it’s low. But that’s how I make sure she doesn’t get me out of her system. Because the truth is—Kie doesn’t get to forget me. I won’t let her.
The worst part? I don’t even know how it ends.
Maybe she’ll regret ever letting herself care, wish she never opened that door. Or maybe I’m the one who ends up regretting it, because she’s the only girl who can turn my own games back on me.
With her, nothing’s certain.
But I’m not scared of it. I want to play. I want to find out.
When she saw me again with Kate, kissing her in plain sight, I didn’t even try to hide it. Hell, I wanted Kiara to catch me. I wanted to see that flicker in her eyes, the one she doesn’t even realize she gives me—half disgust, half… something else.
She has no idea that all of it is calculated. The table stunt, leaning closer just to see her bristle, trying to kiss her just to watch her lose her mind. Every time she gets pissed, every time she snaps at me—it’s proof I’m in her head. And once I’m in, I’m not letting go.
So when I’m out at lacrosse practice, sweaty, helmet under my arm, and I see her walking straight onto the field like she owns the place—yeah, I know something’s coming. She doesn’t even wait. “I need to talk to you.” Her voice sharp, tight. She doesn’t care who’s watching. She just plants herself right there.
I tilt my head, wipe my face with my jersey, act like she’s overreacting. “What, now? Practice isn’t over.” I grin, but she’s not in the mood.
She folds her arms, eyes burning holes through me. “What the hell are you trying to do, Rafe? Seriously. One second you’re acting jealous at the table, then you try to kiss me, and the next moment you’re parading a random girl in my face? What games are you playing with me?”
I laugh under my breath, because God, she’s giving me everything I wanted and more. “Games? You’re imagining shit, Kie. You think everything’s about you.” I shrug, real casual, twisting it like she’s crazy. “Maybe you’re reading into things a little too much.”
She shakes her head, pissed. “Don’t pull that on me. Whatever you’re trying to do, intentional or not—you need to stop, okay? Because I don’t want to be dragged into your twisted shit.” She steps closer, lowers her voice, but I can still hear the anger. “Sarah matters to me. She’s super important to me. I won’t risk my friendship with her because of your idiotic games.”
That hits. Not because I care about Sarah the way she does—but because she just admitted Sarah’s the line. Kiara’s protecting her.
And then she twists the knife. “And by the way—why are you being such a dick to Sarah? She told me about your last fight. Maybe you think she doesn’t care about you, but she does. More than you realize. And she doesn’t deserve the way you treat her.”
I clench my jaw, but I keep the smirk plastered on, because no way I’m letting her see she struck something real. “You don’t know shit about me and Sarah,” I mutter. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, but you don’t.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s daring me to prove her wrong. She wants me to slip, to admit what I’m actually doing here. But I won’t. Not yet.
“Just stay out of it, Kiara,” I say, voice low now. “If I want to fuck things up with Sarah, that’s my business. And as for you…” I let the silence hang, let her wonder what I’m about to say. Then I grin, sharp. “We’ll see.”
And she hates that answer, hates that I won’t give her clarity. But that’s the point. Confuse her, frustrate her, keep her thinking about me long after she walks away.
With Kiara, it’s always a gamble. But right now? I’m winning.
And now here I am, stuck rethinking it. Because she had a point. Because maybe I was being an asshole to Sarah, and maybe Kiara really was trying to stop me from burning it all down again. Because maybe, in her own twisted way, she was offering help.
But the worst part? The part that makes me want to put my fist through a wall? Is that it worked. She got under my skin. She made me pause. Me. Rafe Cameron. And I hate it.
I hate that a few sharp words from her are enough to make me wonder if I should talk to Sarah, if I should even try to fix things. I hate that her voice is louder in my head than my own. That’s the power she has, and I can’t stand it.
Classes are done, kids spilling out of the building, the usual noise of laughter, sneakers on pavement. I light up a cigarette by my car, leaning against it like I’ve got nothing better to do. But I’m not here waiting just for myself—I’m waiting for her.
Sarah.
When she finally comes out, I call, loud enough for her to hear over the noise:
“Hey, sis. Wanna ride?”
She stops mid-step, staring at me like I just grew two heads.
“Why are you being nice to me?” she throws back, half a smile on her face, half suspicion.
I roll my eyes, flicking ash off the cigarette.
“Just get in, Sarah. Doesn’t cost me anything.”
And of course, she comes. She always does. She can’t resist a free ride, and I know her better than anyone. She slides in, throws her bag down, and buckles up without another word. I start the engine, pull out, pretending I don’t notice her staring at me from the passenger seat.
The silence is thick. I hate it. It makes me itch. So I say it, rough and low, like it burns in my throat.
“I wasn’t… grateful. Back there. You were trying to help, I guess. So… yeah. Sorry.”
Her head snaps to me, eyes wide. Then she laughs, that disbelieving, teasing laugh.
“Oh my god. Do you even know how much it costs you to say sorry?”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Don’t push it.”
But she softens, her voice lowering. “Honestly, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said I hate you. That wasn’t true. I was frustrated. Because you never understand me, and you always think the worst of me. I just… I was trying to help you.”
And for some reason—this time—I believe her. I don’t know why, maybe because she actually sounds real. No drama. No exaggeration. Just truth.
I nod, exhaling smoke out the cracked window.
“You know what? Yeah. I’m sorry. Sometimes I should… listen more.”
Sarah’s eyebrows practically hit her hairline.
“Wow. Who is this new person? I like it. Can you let him stay?”
I smirk, but I don’t answer. I can’t give her the satisfaction. We ride in silence for a minute, the wind rushing past, music low from the radio.
Then she breaks it, casual but sharp:
“Anyways, I do have a question for you though.”
I glance at her. “Okay. Spill.”
Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a grin.
“Do you like her?”
My chest tightens. “Who?”
“You know who, Kiara. Like like. Not in the normal, traditional way. More than friends.”
I slam my palm against the wheel, scoffing. “What are you even talking about? Why would you say that?”
She shrugs, looking out the window like it’s nothing. “I just think that what happened at dinner was… weird. Why do you care so much, Rafe?”
Heat rushes up my neck. I hate this. Hate her seeing through me.
“I don’t like her that way. I just like to mess with her. That’s it. That’s all.”
Sarah turns back to me, her voice quieter, more serious.
“I mean, I get it—the whole hating each other thing. But it gets to a point, Rafe. She’s my best friend. I don’t want her to be annoyed by your shit. Now that we’re actually making up, I’m asking you nicely to at least stop it a little.”
I grind my teeth, pissed she’s asking me this, pissed she’s putting me in this spot. But I also don’t want to ruin the little progress we just made. So I force it out:
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
She smiles, almost smug.
“See? You’re so nice when you actually try.”
I don’t respond. My jaw’s tight, eyes locked on the road, heart beating faster than it should. Because all I can think is: why the hell did she have to bring Kiara into this?
We pull up to the house, and I kill the engine, pretending nothing’s wrong. But my head won’t shut up.
Notes:
This chapter was meant to feel messy, repetitive, and even obsessive, because that’s how Rafe’s head works. He keeps rethinking Kiara’s words, and even when he doesn’t want to admit it, she has more power over him than he likes. It’s not only the wish, the want, the need, it’s also how she’s softening him, even if he doesn’t fully see it as a bad thing (yet).
I know it feels disorganized compared to Kiara’s chapters, but that was on purpose. I wanted you to be in his head, seeing how he repeats things, how ungrateful he can be with people, but not with her. Kiara brings out something different in him, and that matters.
We’re also getting closer to that kiss, but not just yet. This is a slow burn, and I always imagined it had to be. For now, it’s fun to enjoy this dynamic between them, messy and dangerous as it is.
I also added a lot of new characters, but they were all important to shape this chapter the way it needed to be. Honestly, this might be my favorite so far.
pretty_bish on Chapter 1 Thu 31 Jul 2025 05:05PM UTC
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lesstarsn on Chapter 1 Thu 31 Jul 2025 06:05PM UTC
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calebyourname (Guest) on Chapter 1 Thu 31 Jul 2025 06:09PM UTC
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lesstarsn on Chapter 1 Thu 31 Jul 2025 06:12PM UTC
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cleosertori229 on Chapter 1 Fri 15 Aug 2025 05:37AM UTC
Last Edited Fri 15 Aug 2025 05:39AM UTC
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lesstarsn on Chapter 1 Fri 15 Aug 2025 07:34PM UTC
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