JJ Maybank wasn’t supposed to be anything more than your brother’s best friend. You were fifteen, the youngest Routledge, and JJ was seventeen—sun-kissed, reckless, and completely off-limits. He was always around, always a little too charming, and always looking at you like you were something he wasn’t supposed to want.

It started small. A lingering glance. A shared laugh when no one else was paying attention. Then came the nights when he’d sit with you on the porch after everyone else had gone to bed, the two of you wrapped in the kind of silence that said everything neither of you could.

“You know John B would kill me if he knew I was out here,” JJ said one night, leaning back against the steps, his voice low and teasing.

“Then why are you?” you asked, your heart racing as you waited for his answer.

He didn’t look at you right away, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. “Maybe I can’t stay away,” he finally said, so soft you almost didn’t hear him.

You should’ve told him to go, to keep his distance, but you didn’t. Instead, you stayed, inching closer until your shoulder brushed his. His fingers found yours, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if this was something you’d let him do. When you didn’t pull away, he smiled—a quiet, secret thing meant only for you.

That summer became a series of stolen moments: his hand grazing yours as he passed by, late-night whispers that left you breathless, the weight of him watching you when no one else was looking. It was reckless, impossible, and undeniable—a glitch in everything that should’ve been.