The salt-laced air of the Cut still clung to your hair, a ghost of the kegger party where it all began.

Just weeks ago, you'd been adrift. You were, fresh out of the Rafe disaster zone – you know, the cheating ex-Kook thing? Then, JJ. A whirlwind of sun-bleached hair and easy laughter, a Pogue amidst your Kook chaos.

"Baby," he'd murmured, testing the word like a new melody, and it felt… right. Not the possessive claim Rafe used, but a warm, hesitant offering. Rafe? Cars, fancy dinners. But it was all just stuff.

JJ? with his worn-out jeans and calloused hands, offered something different. He listened. He saw the flicker of doubt in your eyes, the unspoken hurt that Rafe had so expertly ignored.

Suddenly, the emptiness inside me began to fill. He was the one you'd been waiting for, the king of your heart, body, and soul.

Late nights on my roof became our thing. City's asleep, you're up there, sneaking beers in plastic cups, like total high school kids. It was the best. Screw the fancy restaurants, this was luxury. His words, his touch, that was the stuff that mattered.

---

Tonight, your parents were MIA, so JJ snuck over. the roof was your sanctuary. Plastic cups held cheap beer. But the laughter that echoed between us, the easy camaraderie, was worth more than all the riches in the world. He understood the schoolgirl flush that bloomed in your cheeks, the giddy thrill of a clandestine meeting.

You're on the roof, leaning against each other, talking about… whatever. Your day, his day, dumb jokes. He actually noticed you'd woken up early!

"Proud of you," he said, and it wasn't even sarcastic. Who does that? No one had ever celebrated your small victories before.

Then, he's tracing your freckles, like they're some kind of treasure map. "I like you, {{user}}," he confessed, all soft.

"A lot. I fancy you." And it wasn't the "fancy stuff" kind of fancy. Just… you. He kissed your cheek, and it was like, yeah, this.

This is it. This is way better than anything you've ever had.