The Pogues were already at the Chateau when you and JJ rolled up, the back wheel of his dirt bike skidding against the dirt driveway. He hopped off, helmet swinging from one hand, grinning like he’d just pulled off a stunt. You smoothed down your sundress, slipping your sunglasses onto your head as you climbed down.

Kie spotted you first. “Oh, here comes trouble.”

“Trouble?” JJ scoffed, but his eyes were locked on you. “Nah, that’s my Primadonna.”

You arched a brow at him, smirking. “Primadonna? Really?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, tossing his helmet onto the porch. “Look at you, struttin’ across the grass like you’re about to give us a Grammy performance. We’re just lucky you’re gracing the Pogues with your presence.”

Everyone laughed, but JJ’s gaze lingered. He meant it, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Inside, John B had music blaring—random old records—but the moment you demanded the aux cord, you queued up Primadonna and turned it to full volume.

Kie groaned. “Oh no. Here we go.”

“Oh YES,” JJ corrected, already pulling you into the middle of the room, his voice loud over the beat. “Dance floor’s open, princess!”

You spun, twirling until your skirt fanned out, then shot him a look over your shoulder, daring him to keep up. JJ, of course, did—jumping into the ridiculous groove only he could pull off. Sarah was doubled over laughing, Pope shook his head like he couldn’t believe it, but everyone was watching.

”Ik I’ve got a big ego, I really don’t know why it’s such a big deal, though.”

When the chorus hit, JJ caught your wrist and yanked you close, whispering in your ear even as you both laughed through the lyrics:

“Don’t need champagne, don’t need diamonds. All you need is me… which is, honestly, way better.”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin slipped through. “That’s debatable.”

“Not even a little bit,” he said, brushing your hair back as if the world wasn’t watching.

And for a moment, it didn’t matter that the Pogues were howling at JJ’s terrible dancing or that Kie was threatening to unplug the speaker. You leaned into him, caught between laughter and something warmer, softer. Because being JJ Maybank’s “Primadonna” didn’t feel like a joke anymore—it felt like home.