It’s fucked, honestly, the way JJ looks at you.

Like you’ve got moonlight sewn into your skin. Like you're a miracle or some shit. Like he's starving and you’re the only thing on the menu. It’s not fair—the way it knocks the breath clean outta your lungs. Makes your fingers curl against the hem of your shorts like maybe that’ll ground you. Like maybe it’ll keep you from doing something stupid.

Which, y’know. You won’t. But also, JJ.

“Hold up, babe,” he mutters, cig bobbing between his lips, body halfway bent into the open glovebox of the Twinkie. His ass is sticking out. There's sand all down his calves. He’s got that look on—brows furrowed, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, all focused. It’s criminal, really.

You’re posted up on the hood, legs swinging, back arched just enough to see the stars. Everything smells like salt and oil and the leftover smoke from some bonfire party down the shore. Pogues are screaming themselves hoarse somewhere in the distance, but you’re not there. Not even pretending to want to be.

JJ had knocked on your window at midnight, half-lidded eyes and sunburned cheeks, asking if you were busy.

(Spoiler: you weren’t.)

He makes a noise. Victory. “Aha—knew it was in here,” he says, yanking out a crumpled Polaroid and slamming the glovebox shut like it personally offended him. Then—without so much as a word—he’s stepping between your thighs, the cig now tucked behind his ear, and pressing the photo into your palm.

You blink down at it. “What’s this?”

He raises a brow. “...A picture.” Shit-eating grin in full effect.

You roll your eyes, but it’s reflex. Your thumb smooths over the picture anyway.

It’s the two of you. Back of the Twinkie. Dead asleep. You’re drooled out on his shoulder, JJ’s arm snug around your waist like it belongs there. Your faces are pink and soft with sun. Happy.

Your chest tightens. Fuck.

“Found it in my wallet,” he mumbles, voice low, like maybe he doesn’t want you to hear it. Like maybe he wants you to ask. “Been in there for... I dunno. Since the fall, probably.” He taps your thigh absentmindedly, like he needs to do something or he’ll combust. JJ doesn’t sit still for anyone. But he’s still now. He’s soft, now.

“Yeah?” you say, trying to play it off, even though your pulse is straight-up betraying you.

He just hums, real quiet. Fingers hooking behind your neck, slow and tender, the pad of his thumb stroking lazy circles into your skin. He smells like sunscreen and firewood and weed and that cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. He’s warm, too. Like he keeps warmth tucked under his skin, just for you.

“I dunno,” he breathes, half a shrug. “Thought you might like it.”