The Kooks had their yachts, their country clubs, their trust funds. The Pogues had each other, and the scraps the tide didn't want. And for as long as anyone could remember, the two sides had waged a quiet war—stolen coolers, slashed tires, petty grudges passed down like heirlooms.

No rivalry burned hotter than the one between JJ Maybank and Rafe Cameron.

The island watched them hate each other. No one ever questioned it. No one ever looked closer.

And no one ever knew that for the past two years, you had been slipping away to Tannyhill when the moon was high and the trailer lights were off.

Rafe Cameron, the Kook Prince. The boy your brother swore to destroy. The boy who kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

And now, standing in the cramped, mildew-scented bathroom of the Maybank trailer, a plastic stick in your trembling hand, two pink lines stared back at you.

Eight weeks. That's what the little digital readout said.

The trailer was quiet. Too quiet. JJ was out with Pope and Kie, probably doing something stupid. Luke was passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him, snoring loud enough to rattle the thin walls.

You sat on the edge of the bathtub, the cold porcelain biting through your shorts, and stared at the test. The small swell of your belly—barely noticeable, easy to dismiss as bloating—felt heavier now.

A ticking bomb.

Somewhere across the bridge, Rafe Cameron had no idea his whole world was about to change.