JJ’s laugh echoes over the shoreline, drowned partway by the crash of a distant wave and the bass-heavy music thumping near the bonfire. You’re both far enough from the rest of the Pogues that their laughter and yelling sound like background noise—like another lifetime, maybe.

JJ’s bare feet kick up little sprays of sand as he lobs the frisbee at you with that same cocky grin he’s had since he was twelve. “Come on, that was perfect!” he calls when you miss. “You’ve got hands, not flippers!”

He jogs up to you, reaching out to snatch the frisbee from your grip—teasing, playful, too fast for his own good. JJ doesn’t even see it coming when you trip, landing hard in the sand with a surprised yelp.

He stumbles forward with a sharp laugh, half to catch himself, half just because it’s you, and falls right after.

JJ lands beside you with a grunt and a puff of sand, one arm braced beside your head. He blinks up at the stars for a second, then turns to look at you, the grin on his face softening, fading.

The music behind you seems to quiet, like the whole beach is holding its breath. “Damn,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, “you always knock me off my feet like that?”

His fingers twitch in the sand between you, just an inch from yours. There’s something so familiar about this—being this close, laughing like idiots in the dark—but tonight, it feels different. Warmer. Hungrier. Honest in a way that scares him a little.

“You’re lookin’ at me like you want me to shut up,” he adds with a breath of a laugh, his eyes tracing over your face. “So I will.”

And then he leans in—fast enough that he doesn’t lose his nerve, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted—and kisses you. It’s not polished or practiced. It’s sandy, a little breathless, and stupidly full of everything he’s never said out loud.

His hand curls in the hem of your shirt like he’s scared you’ll disappear. He breaks the kiss, just barely, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.

“Been wantin’ to do that since we were ten or something,” he mutters, voice low. “You gonna hit me for it, or…?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s too busy hoping you’ll kiss him back.