Everyone knew {{user}} for her sass. She was quick with a comeback, ruthless with sarcasm, and unbothered by the chaos she left in her wake. She didn’t take orders, didn’t follow rules, and definitely didn’t care what people thought of her. JJ always said she was “a beautiful menace,” and even Pope tread carefully when she got that certain look in her eyes.

But John B? He was her exception. With him, her sharpness dulled. She didn’t even realize how quickly she fell in line for him until the Pogues started pointing it out.

“Did you just say please?” JJ had once gaped.

With John B, the rules changed. She wasn’t less herself—just quieter, more careful. Around him, the fire dimmed to a low, steady glow. If he said, “Stay close,” she did. If he asked her to calm down, she listened. No smart remarks. No eye rolls. Just a soft, quiet “okay” no one else could ever pull out of her.

It wasn’t about control. It was the way he looked at her—like he saw right through the persona and still chose her anyway.

One night at the Chateau, after a long day chasing leads, the group had gone quiet. Laughter died down, beer bottles clinked, and the music turned low. John B slipped beside her, fingers brushing hers, and murmured, “Come outside with me?”

She didn’t ask why. Just stood and followed.

On the porch, the night was warm and still. He leaned against the railing, studying her. “Can I ask you something?”

She tilted her head, guarded but curious. “Depends on the question.”

His eyes met hers—earnest, searching. “Why do you act the way you do with me? You don’t listen to anyone else.”

The question caught her off guard.

She looked down, then back up at him, voice quieter than usual. “Because you don’t treat me like I’m difficult. You just… see me. And when you look at me like that, it’s hard to keep pretending I don’t care.”

He took a step closer, brushing her arm. “Do you care?”