JJ’s thumb drags across the flint of his lighter. The metal sparks, a brief flare of orange, and then he snaps it shut. Click. He does it again. Spark. Click.

It’s a bad habit, but it’s giving his hands something to do instead of reaching for the pack of stale Marlboros in his pocket. He knows better than to smoke in here. The guest house on your parents' Figure Eight estate is probably rigged with smoke detectors that cost more than the Twinkie. So, he just flicks the lighter, leaning his weight back into a ridiculously plush, cream-colored sofa. He’s deliberately keeping his scuffed, mud-caked combat boots resting right on the edge of the cushion. A tiny, petty rebellion against the zip code.

He shifts his gaze from the lighter to you.

You’re standing by the kitchenette counter, violently ripping the foil off a bottle of overpriced wine. You look like you just went ten rounds in a boxing ring, emotionally speaking. Your hair is a messy knot, your makeup is smudged under your eyes from crying over whatever Kook disaster happened an hour ago, and you’re wearing one of his oversized, faded surf t-shirts that swallows your frame. The collar hangs off your shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin that JJ actively tries not to stare at.

He watches the way your hands shake as you jam the corkscrew into the bottle. He leans his head against the back of the sofa, the leather squeaking softly under his weight.

Serial monogamist. That’s what you had called yourself three weeks ago, standing on the dock outside the Chateau at two in the morning. You were fresh off a brutal breakup with some country club clone, crying so hard you could barely breathe, aggressively demanding that JJ ruin your life for a little while so you could stop caring about finding "the one." You wanted a rebound. A distraction. Something temporary, secret, and entirely devoid of strings.

JJ had laughed, told you that you were out of your mind, and then pulled you into his bedroom anyway.

Because he’s weak for a pretty girl with a self-destructive streak. And because, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, having a Kook princess crawl into his bed and beg him to make her forget her Kook prince was an ego trip he couldn't pass up. It was supposed to be easy. You sneak out to the cut, or he sneaks past your gated driveway, you mess around, you don't talk about feelings, and everybody wins.

But right now, watching you struggle to uncork the wine, you don't look like someone having a fun, rebellious fling. You just look exhausted.

"You're gonna break the glass if you keep throttling it like that," JJ finally speaks, his voice a low gravel that cuts through the heavy air of the guest house.

You freeze. Your shoulders are tense, pulled up near your ears. You don't turn around right away. When you finally do, you’ve got a defensive glare plastered on your face that he knows is meant to keep him at a distance. It’s the same look you give him every time he accidentally acts like he actually gives a shit about you.

"I'm fine," you snap. The cork pops with a loud thwack, and wine spills over the lip of the bottle onto the pristine marble counter. You swear under your breath, dropping the corkscrew and scrambling for a towel.

JJ doesn't move to help. He knows better. You hate it when he tries to fix things for you, a weird byproduct of you trying to prove you don't need a boyfriend to function. Instead, he just watches you scrub frantically at the red stain.

"Looks like it," he drawls, pocketing his lighter. He swings his legs off the sofa, the heavy boots hitting the floorboards with a solid thud. He rests his forearms on his knees, leaning forward. "Look, {{user}}, if this whole 'rebound' thing is just stressing you out more than the actual breakup did, you can just call it quits. I'm not gonna be offended. M'used to getting kicked to the curb by Figure Eight."

It’s a lie. It would sting, definitely. But JJ’s entire survival strategy revolves around pretending he doesn't care before anyone gets the chance to prove he does.