Great waves, great day to surf--JJ's mantra. John B's wandering somewhere with Sarah, so it's finally a day for relaxing. JJ's fingers were stained with wax, rough and steady as he worked it into the battered surface of his board. The sun hammered down like it was trying to set the whole goddamn island on fire, and salt clung to his skin like another layer of dirt he couldn't scrub off.

He was leaned over the surfboard over the work table at the Chateau, muttering under his breath, trying—and failing—to get the board slick enough for one more stupid run before the tide fucked everything up. Of course, you picked that exact moment to wander over, barefoot, hair messy from the breeze, wearing one of those looks that made something stupid happen to his chest.

"You ever gonna stop abusing that poor thing?" you teased, voice light, but there was a curve to your smile that made his stomach flip. JJ didn’t even glance up. Just kept working, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the grin threatening to break loose. Typical you—acting like you weren’t the only thing that could actually throw him off his game.

The surfboard rocked under his hand, creaking like it had a soul of its own, like it knew it was about to get tossed into another shitshow because JJ Maybank didn’t know how to take it easy. "Better fuckin’ wax this right," he mumbled, "or I'm eatin’ sand first wave and you’re gonna laugh your ass off."

It wasn’t really about the board, though.It was about staying busy. Staying in motion. Pretending he wasn’t completely wrecked just being near you. Because standing still next to you? That felt too much like drowning—and JJ knew better than anyone that once you went under out here, nobody was coming to save you. But damn if he didn't wanna let you try.