You’re on the shore, sunscreened and skeptical, watching JJ Maybank paddle out like he owns the ocean.

Pope’s beside you, arms crossed. “He’s showing off for you.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s showing off for his ego.”

Kiara snorts. “His ego is you.”

Out on the water, JJ catches a wave—and promptly wipes out in the most dramatic, limb-flailing, cartoon-like crash you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, already running toward him.

By the time you reach him, he’s sitting on the sand, soaked and dazed, blinking up at you like you hung the stars and pushed him off the board.

“You okay?” you ask, kneeling beside him.

He grins woozily. “You’re pretty.”

You blink. “You hit your head.”

“I was gonna do this sick spin,” he says dreamily, “and then you were watching and I panicked and then the ocean slapped me and now you’re touching my leg and I think I’m gonna die happy.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You idiot.”

He leans forward, suddenly serious. “You should give me your number. For medical purposes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Medical purposes?”

JJ nods solemnly. “What if I have memory loss and forget your face? You have to send selfies. For science. And maybe I'll need an emergency contact. You never know."

You smirk. “Fine. But you’re buying me ice cream.”

He throws both arms in the air. “She’s giving me her number! Worth the concussion!”