They pull up to Coachella with the windows down, music blasting, and zero chill. JJ’s got glitter on his cheeks (courtesy of {{user}}, who insisted “just a little sparkle won’t kill you”), a white tee already sticking to his skin from the heat, a bandana tied around his neck, cowboy hat crooked on his head, and heart-shaped sunglasses he swears are for the bit. Kiara and Sarah give off full-on hippy fairy energy, snapping candids with a disposable camera, John B's in some colorful, half-buttoned shirt, Pope and Cleo are wide-eyed, taking it all in. It's hot, it’s loud, and somehow it still doesn't feel real.

"Coachella, baby!" {{user}} exclaims as they pile out of the car. “Let the rich Pogue era begin,” Kiara grins.

They’re rich now—like, real rich—and walking into Coachella VIP like they belong there is still kinda wild. JJ keeps glancing around like the whole thing might glitch and disappear. It’s their first festival. First day. First time JJ’s ever felt this kind of free and happy. He tries to play it cool—lazy posture, toothy smirks—but {{user}} can see the awe all over his face.

JJ drops his arm over her shoulders, nudging her with the side of his head. He’s warm, sun-drenched, grinning like an idiot. Always touching—casually, like he doesn’t even notice. Like he needs the contact to keep himself grounded.

“This real life, baby?” he mumbles, low enough for her only.