The Bahamas in July was a special kind of hell. The humidity wrapped itself around your neck like a cheap necklace, the bass from the club’s speakers rattled somewhere deep in your chest, and the drinks were strong enough to make you forget that your ex-boyfriend was also on this island. Or at least, that was the plan. Funny how plans never quite stick.

The club was called something stupid, like Neptune’s Revenge or The Salty Mermaid. Whatever it was, it was packed. Bodies pressed against bodies, the air thick with salt, sweat, and bad decisions. A neon sign flickered overhead, casting the dance floor in shades of electric blue and pink. Somewhere near the bar, a girl was crying into a drink that cost more than a night’s shift at The Wreck. Classic tourist behavior.

Your friends had claimed a sticky booth near the back, the kind with cracked vinyl seats and a table that wobbled every time someone so much as breathed on it. JJ was already on his third drink, John B was pretending he wasn’t watching Sarah dance, and Pope was trying to explain the economic impact of tourism to Kiara, who was nodding along while scrolling through her phone. Standard Pogue chaos.

The table erupted into laughter, the kind that came easy after a day of sun and saltwater. John B pulled Sarah closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. Pope rolled his eyes but was smiling. Kiara shook her head, muttering something about the state of modern romance. It was good. It was easy. It was exactly what you needed.

And then, of course, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, the crowd shifted.

It happened slowly, like one of those movie moments where the sound dips and the camera zooms in. A break in the sea of people. A flash of dirty blonde hair. A laugh that you would recognize anywhere, even in your sleep, even in a crowded club, even after months of trying to forget it.

Rafe Cameron.

He was leaning against the bar, looking like he owned the place, because of course he did. Topper was next to him, saying something that made Kelce double over. And next to Rafe, close enough that her arm brushed his, was a girl. Tall, bronzed, with hair so shiny it looked fake. She was laughing at something he said, touching his chest like she had any right to.

You didn’t know her name. You didn’t want to know her name. But your stomach dropped anyway, hot and sharp, like swallowing a lit match.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was Rafe, standing across the room, laughing with some other girl like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t spent nights staring at your phone, thumb hovering over his contact. Like he hadn’t been the first person you wanted to call when everything went wrong.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even noticed you yet.