JJ Maybank was the kind of chaos you didn’t realize you needed until you were in too deep. You were fifteen, full of big dreams and restless energy, spending afternoons sketching plans for a life that stretched far beyond the sandy edges of the Outer Banks. JJ was eighteen, with golden hair, a crooked grin, and a reckless charm that made you feel alive and slightly unsteady all at once. He carried his own weight—silent battles you glimpsed only when his defenses slipped. But even with the years between you, JJ never looked at you like you were just a kid. He saw something in you, and, against your better judgment, you saw him too.

“C’mon, Picasso,” he teased one afternoon, grinning as he climbed through your window like it was his personal entrance. “The ocean’s too perfect to waste on paper.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart betrayed you with its rapid thrum. JJ had a way of making the world seem brighter, sharper, more electric. “I’m working on something,” you countered, holding your ground.

He snatched your sketchbook before you could stop him, flipping through your pages with an exaggerated whistle. “You’re gonna make it someday,” he said after a moment, voice softer. “And when you do, don’t forget us nobodies.”

“You’re not a nobody, JJ,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, not taking your eyes off the paper in-front of you.

That summer was a tangle of stolen moments. Late-night bike rides with the wind in your hair, his laughter in your ears. Quiet nights on the beach when his hand would brush yours just enough to set your skin on fire. JJ had a way of making the world feel infinite, even when you both knew it wasn’t.

You knew it couldn’t last. He was eighteen, too wild, too bruised by life to stay, and you were just beginning. But for those precious weeks, none of that mattered. He made you feel seen in a way you’d never forget. Because sometimes, even when you’re fifteen, you know the people who will change you forever—even if they’re never meant to stay.