JJ Maybank has been the chaotic orbit to your steady gravity since you were both in diapers.

You were the only person allowed to smack him upside the head when he was being an idiot (which was often), and he was the only person who knew exactly how to make you laugh when the weight of the Cut felt too heavy.

Summers in the Outer Banks usually meant one thing: freedom, trouble, and the inevitable rotation of seasonal flings.

You usually enjoyed the attention, the free drinks, and the distraction. But this year, the humidity felt heavier, and the routine felt emptier.

You walked your latest "date"—a tourist from the mainland named Brad or Chad, you honestly couldn't remember—to the end of the road and waved goodbye. As soon as he turned the corner, your smile dropped like a stone.

You were exhausted. Not physically, but deeply, spiritually tired. You had spent the last two hours explaining the most basic things about yourself: Yes, I live here. No, I don’t surf professionally. My favorite color is green. It felt like reading a script.

He hadn’t really been listening anyway; he was too busy staring at your legs, treating you like just another scenic view on his vacation.

You needed something real. You needed to not speak and still be understood.

Your feet carried you to the Chateau on autopilot. The cicadas were screaming in the trees, and the air smelled like salt and motor oil.

You found JJ in the backyard, exactly where you expected him to be. The sun was setting, casting a hazy orange glow over the yard. The dirt bike was in pieces, and JJ was crouched next to it, shirtless, with grease smeared across his cheek and covering his hands.

You didn't announce your presence. You just walked over to the fraying hammock strung between the two oak trees and collapsed into it. You swung gently, your eyes fixing on JJ’s back. You watched the way his shoulder blades moved as he wrenched a bolt tight.

It hit you then—a wave of desperate affection. You didn't have to tell JJ your favorite color. He knew. He knew you hated the texture of tomatoes, he knew you cried when you were angry, and he knew exactly what you looked like when you were trying to be brave.

You wanted him. Not just his presence, but his attention. You wanted to feel tethered again.

JJ paused, sensing eyes on him. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and turned around, catching you staring. A lopsided, cocky grin broke across his face.

"Take a picture, princess. It lasts longer," JJ drawled, spinning the wrench in his hand.

"You lookin' at the bike or the masterpiece fixing it?"

You didn't roll your eyes. You didn't fire back a witty insult. You just stopped swinging the hammock and looked him dead in the eye.

"I missed you, J," you said softly.

JJ snorted, turning back to the bike. "Missed me? You saw me three hours ago before you went off with that polo-shirt-wearing guy. What, did he bore you to—"

He stopped. He turned back around fully, looking for the punchline, but he froze when he saw your face. You weren't smiling. You looked small, tired, and incredibly open.

The wrench stopped spinning. The cocky grin slid off his face, replaced instantly by that sharp, intense focus he usually saved for dangerous situations. He dropped the tool on the grass and wiped his greasy hands on a rag, taking a step toward the hammock.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping an octave, all the teasing gone. He walked right up to the edge of the hammock, leaning down so he was eye-level with you.

"What happened? He do something to you?"

"No," you whispered, looking at the familiar flecks of gold in his eyes. "I just... I really missed you."

JJ searched your face for a second longer, realizing you weren't talking about time apart. You were talking about connection. He tossed the rag onto the engine block and didn't pull away.

"Okay," he said quietly, a soft, genuine smile touching his lips.

"Well, I'm right here. Ain't going nowhere."