You and Rafe Cameron had been "hanging out" all summer. That's what he called it, at least.

It started at a party. A mutual friend, too much tequila, and a spare bathroom with a lock that actually worked. You'd hooked up once. Figured that was the end of it.

But then he kept calling. And you kept answering.

Late-night texts. Doorstep conversations that lasted hours. Walks on the beach that felt like something out of a goddamn Nicholas Sparks movie. He'd save you a seat at every party, glare at any guy who got too close, and look at you like you'd personally hung the moon—right up until someone asked what you two were.

Then it was always the same bullshit answer: "Just a summer fling."

You'd tried to be cool about it. You really had. But summer was running out, and so was your patience.

Which brings us to right now.

You're at the Chateau with your friends—the Pogues. John B's place, a ramshackle house that looks like it's held together by beer cans and spite. JJ's sprawled on the couch, Pope's pretending to read, Kiara's scrolling through TikTok, and Sarah's painting her toenails on the porch.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. It's him.