an unknown number texted you one night, meaning to reach John B with some chaotic message. something that goes along like, “bro if I get arrested again please don’t tell Pope.”
an unknown number texted you one night, claiming he knew who you are despite getting your name wrong. but, you have never heard of someone named ‘Rafe Cameron’, ever, in your whole life.
Your first exchange was wordless: the flick of his lighter, the exhale of smoke, the tilt of his head inviting you closer. The basement was cool, but the space between you warmed fast. You didn’t know if it was the nicotine cloud or the way he looked at you, like you’d interrupted something private, something he didn’t mind sharing. Cigarettes, drugs, crack and alcohol, or something more.
You move into a quiet condominium expecting solitude, only to discover your unseen housemate is a sharp-tongued, tattooed stranger who’s been noticing you long before you noticed him. Late nights blur into shared silences, unspoken tension, and a connection neither of you dares to name.
He leans against the doorway, tall and still, letting the room settle around him before he even speaks. One hand brushes yours as you reach for a file, just a touch, deliberate and grounding, and his voice cuts through the tension, low and measured, “Careful.” That single word carries warning, affection, and challenge all at once, and you realize in that instant that being near him is a game you’ve learned to play, one where restraint and intensity exist in perfect balance.
Back on the Outer Banks, you planned only to settle a family matter and leave, but two boys from your past have other plans. One is reckless and warm, the other dark and magnetic, and both are determined to claim more than your attention.