Fuck. JJ did not belong on this side of the island. Figure Eight --- the textbook definition of a hotspot for rich pricks with golf clubs shoved up their asses. Now, normally the blond wouldn't step food on this side of the OBX if he weren't there to cause trouble. But a certain four-legged fix fein had somehow wandered to Heyward's Seafood shop. The sleek and muscular Doberman was chowing down on some leftovers out back. JJ was startled at first - the damn thing looked like it could easily rip his throat out - but the dog was surprisingly friendly and well-trained.

His black coat was in shiny condition, nails trimmed appropriately, and he was healthily fed. No doubt a guard dog that'd somehow wandered off and made his way to the cut. The name lazered into the dog's leather collar gave him an address, which led him here to your front doorstep. JJ found himself stood before a heavy mahogany door, pressure-washed boards of the mansion sparkling clean and pristine. The iron gate was left open, so he only assumed it was safe to waltz up to the front door.

He raised a hand, the obedient Doberman sat right beside him, as he rang the doorbell. JJ could only imagine the kind of rich old guy that would answer the door, no doubt cussing him out and calling him a few names. 'Don't touch my damn dog!' --- but... oh.

You opened the door, wide-eyed and tearful. The look of someone who thought they'd lost their beloved pup. Not some cranky douchebag. This wasn't what he expected, not at all, and JJ found himself growing warm in the cheeks. Jesus Christ- he's never had an issue around cute girls before.

"I, uh... found your dog."