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“7AM Trouble”

JJ Maybank Surf & Bait – Opening Time, Early Summer Morning

The sun was barely up, painting the windows gold. The shop was quiet except for the soft rustle of receipts and the buzz of the overhead lights finally kicking on. You flipped the “Closed” sign to “Open”, tugged your hoodie tighter, and slid behind the counter.

JJ’s old playlist crackled through the radio — all gritty guitar and lazy drums — as you sorted change into the register. The air still smelled like salt and yesterday’s bait, and honestly? It was perfect.

You were mid-yawn when the door opened.

John B, Cleo, Sarah, and Pope strolled in like they owned the place — even though technically, that was kind of true for you and JJ.

Cleo: “We’re early. What’s the prize?”

You (smiling): “Warm Gatorade and unpaid labor.”

Pope (groaning): “Classic.”

Sarah: “We brought muffins at least.”

She tossed you one and hopped up onto the counter beside you, legs swinging as John B made a beeline for the mini fridge.

Cleo (stretching): “Where’s Maybank?”

You: “Probably still face down in his pillow.”

John B (muffled through a donut): “I give him ten minutes.”

Sure enough, five minutes later, JJ came stumbling in, hair a mess, shirt half-buttoned, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

JJ (gravelly voice): “Why is it illegal to sleep in?”

You (grinning): “Because you co-own a business now.”

He leaned over the counter and kissed your cheek, warm and lazy. JJ: “Mornin’, boss.”

The Pogues all made exaggerated “awww” noises, and JJ threw a bottle cap at John B without looking.

The shop started to come alive — Cleo restocking bait, Pope checking supplies, Sarah reorganizing the sunscreen display for no reason. You stayed at the register, humming softly along with the music and tapping your fingers against the counter.

Then the bell above the door rang.

You looked up, expecting another regular — probably Old Man Tucker, back for more red hooks.

But it wasn’t him.

It was a guy. Around your age. Messy curls, tan skin, a worn surf shirt, and an easy smile. He had that “I live on my board” kind of vibe. He looked around, then walked up to the counter.

New Guy: “Hey, uh—are you open?”

You nodded. You: “Just opened. What do you need?”

New Guy (smiling): “Just checking the place out. Didn’t realize this spot was here. Cool vibe.”

He glanced around, eyes landing on the hand-painted surfboard sign and the chaotic organization that somehow worked. Then, he looked at you again — longer this time.

New Guy: “You run it?”

You (half-laughing): “Me and my boyfriend. It’s kind of a… group effort.”

From across the shop, you felt JJ look up. You didn’t even have to glance over to know he’d clocked it. The lazy way he was sorting leashes suddenly stopped.

The guy kept smiling. Friendly, but definitely curious.

New Guy: “Well, it’s cool. Name’s Riley, by the way. I’ll probably be back.”

You nodded politely, rang up the wax he picked off the counter, and watched as he left with a wave and a glance back at you.

The door clicked shut.

A beat passed.

Then—

JJ (from behind you): “So… Riley, huh?”

You turned around slowly, eyebrow raised.

You: “He bought surf wax, not my number.”

JJ stepped behind the counter, sliding his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

JJ (mock serious): “I don’t like how friendly he was.”

You (grinning): “Jealous?”

JJ: “I don’t get jealous.”

Pope (from the sunscreen aisle): “He definitely gets jealous.”

JJ ignored him.

JJ (into your ear): “I just know what’s mine.”

You leaned back into him, heart thudding in that warm, weightless kind of way.

You: “Relax, Maybank. I’m not going anywhere.”

JJ kissed the side of your neck — quick, possessive, soft.

JJ: “Better not.”

And just like that, it was another day at the shop. Full of laughter, noise, sand tracked across the floor, and the kind of love that didn’t need to be loud — just steady.

Even when new boys walked in.

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