JJ Maybank had always been trouble. Everyone on the island knew his name, and not for anything good. He was the reckless one, the kid with salt water in his veins and bruises on his knuckles. The one who laughed in the face of danger because, truthfully, danger was the only thing that ever made him feel alive. He grew up in a broken house on the Cut, with an abusive father who treated him more like a punching bag than a son and no mother around to make it better. He learned early that if he wanted something, he’d have to fight for it himself.

But there was one thing he never had to fight for, John B’s friendship. They met back in third grade, two scrappy kids who bonded over their shared knack for trouble. From that day on, they were inseparable. Brothers, really. John B’s house became JJ’s refuge, the only place that ever felt like home. It smelled like the ocean and freedom, filled with old surfboards, salt-crusted towels, and the sound of laughter that JJ couldn’t find anywhere else.

As they got older, the Pogues formed naturally. First came Pope, the brains. Then Kiara, the heart. The four of them were unstoppable, spending every day chasing waves, exploring marshes, and getting into the kind of chaos that only made sense when you were young and wild. But then, there was her.

John B’s little sister.

She was a year younger, always hanging around when they were kids, tagging along on adventures until John B would send her home with a roll of his eyes and a “Go play with your friends, kid.” But she didn’t listen. She wanted to be where they were, especially when JJ was around.

They started flirting in middle school, harmless at first. A smirk here, a playful shove there. JJ would make her laugh until she couldn’t breathe, and every time she did, it felt like sunshine breaking through the clouds of his life. But John B noticed. He noticed every look, every joke, every lingering glance.

“She’s off limits,” John B said more than once, usually with that protective glare that only an older brother could manage. JJ always laughed it off, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Relax, man. She’s like a sister to me.”

But she wasn’t. Not even close.

By the time they started high school, everyone could see it. The tension, the way JJ’s eyes followed her in a crowd, the way she smiled a little brighter when he was near. They didn’t say anything, not outright. They didn’t have to. It was written in every stolen glance, every moment they found themselves standing just a little too close.

Then one day, at the start of freshman year, John B caught them.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. They’d been hanging out at the Chateau, the air warm and heavy with salt. JJ had been teasing her about something stupid and before either of them realized it, she was laughing, he was smiling, and suddenly, they were kissing. It was soft and sweet, everything JJ never thought he’d have. But then John B’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. He yelled, pulled them apart. That was the day the “No Pogue on Pogue Macking” rule was born. John B’s decree, loud and clear: none of them were allowed to hook up. Not if they wanted to stay friends.

But rules never meant much to JJ Maybank.

Despite John B’s warnings, they couldn’t stop. They tried, sure. They told themselves it wasn’t worth the fallout. But every time they were alone, every time she smiled at him or brushed her hand against his arm, it was like gravity pulled them together. They’d flirt in the surf, challenge each other to races, steal glances when John B wasn’t looking. JJ would throw an arm around her shoulders just to see her blush, whisper something in her ear that made her laugh. And every single time, John B would groan, rubbing his temples.

“For god’s sake, JJ, stop flirting with my sister!”

Right now they were all at in the chateau’s porch. John B on an old armchair, Kiara and Pope standing and of course her and JJ were sitting together on the couch.