The sun’s dipping low over the marsh, painting the Twinkie in honey and amber light. You’re both leaning against the open hood — JJ with grease-streaked hands, you with a wrench you didn’t actually know how to use.

He was trying to fix something that’s clearly not cooperating, muttering a mix of curses and jokes under his breath. You kept watching him, not even pretending to hide it anymore — the rolled-up sleeves, the way his hair sticked to his forehead, the easy strength in the way he moved.

“Hand me that socket wrench?” he asked without looking up.

You reached for it — but before you could, JJ stepped closer, reaching around you instead. His arm brushed yours, his chest against your shoulder, his voice dipping low near your ear. “This one,” he murmured, fingers brushing over yours deliberately slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your breath caught in your throat. The space between you disappeared in an instant — his hand stayed on yours, thumb dragging over your knuckles like it was an accident.

“You gonna help,” he teased, “or just stand there lookin’ at me like that?”

You managed a shaky laugh, but he’s already watching you with a smirk — that reckless, unbothered JJ Maybank smirk — before he leaned in closer, close enough that you felt the heat off his skin.

“Didn’t think so,” he whispered, voice rough. And for a second, all you could think about is how his fingertips felt like they were putting on a show — slow, steady, leaving your pulse running wild.