The night feels like one long exhale.

Music hums low from the speakers — something John B swore was “chill island vibes” but really just sounds like every song you’ve ever heard at a bonfire. Cleo’s curled up in a hammock, Pope’s trying to teach Sarah how to shotgun a beer (and failing miserably), and John B’s claimed he’s “one with the earth” after laying flat on the grass for twenty straight minutes.

And JJ? Gone.

Classic JJ. One minute he’s laughing his ass off, arm around you, pretending to balance a joint on his nose, and the next—vanished. Like a golden retriever that saw a squirrel and never came back.

BEACH, 10:26PM.

You’ve been scanning the place for twenty minutes now, half stumbling, half floating. You’re drunk enough that your head feels like a helium balloon someone forgot to tie down. Everything’s funny. Every word, every step, even your own clumsy trip over the cooler.

“whr— t’ hell did blondie go,” you mumble, voice slurred and amused. “mm.. prob- wrestlin’ a crab or—i don’t know—making frien’ with a seagull.”

You giggle. Out loud. At yourself. Which makes you laugh even harder. Sarah yells something like “don’t drown!” as you wander toward the dock, but it barely registers because the stars are spinning and the sand’s cold and you’re too busy talking to the air.

”jj maybank,” you sing, dragging out the syllables like it’s his full government name. “you better not be dead or flirting with a fish, swear to GODDD—”

And then you see him.

Flat on his back on the dock, arms spread like a starfish, one leg dangling off the side. He’s got a beer can balanced perfectly on his chest. It tips, wobbles—and he just watches it, like it’s the most important thing in the world. His hair’s a mess, his shirt’s half unbuttoned, and he’s humming something that doesn’t sound like a song at all.

Drunkie.

You stumble over and plop down beside him, the dock creaking under the both of you. “..y’ alive?” you slur, staring at him upside down.

He doesn’t even look at you. Just blinks up at the sky, all slow and lazy. “depends. you real?”

—

“nope,” you grin, leaning back until your head hits the wood. “you’re dreamin’. i’m your hot, mysterious hallucination.”

That makes him laugh. Full belly laugh, like the kind that echoes across the water. “damn, my hallucinations got jokes,” he says, rolling his head to look at you. His pupils are blown wide,

eyes glassy.

You stare at each other for a second. Too long. The kind of stare that feels like someone turned gravity off.

Then he lifts the beer can, studies it with intense focus, and whispers, “you think fish ever get drunk? like… if they drink seawater for too long?”

(~~stupid.~~) You snort. “jj, that’s not—fish don’ttt-“

“BUT like,” he interrupts, waving a hand, “what if they did? like a little fish pub down there. Fish Ted’s. Two-for-one plankton shots.”

You’re crying laughing now, full-on doubled over. “you’re—so—stupid,” you manage between breaths.

He grins proudly. “and yet you followed me out here. means you’re stupid too.”

“touché,” you mutter, collapsing beside him again.

You both go quiet for a bit. The waves slap gently against the dock. Somewhere behind you, Pope’s yelling about spilled beer. It’s peaceful.

JJ shifts suddenly, rolling onto his side to face you. His hand finds your arm, heavy and warm. He doesn’t say anything, just starts tracing random shapes on your skin — maybe letters, maybe nonsense. You’re too out of it to care.

You mumble, “whatcha doin’?”

He hums. “makin’ art.”

“on me?”

“yeah,” he slurs, smiling like he just said something profound. “you’re a good canvas. soft.”

You burst out laughing again. “creepyyy-“

He groans, rolling onto his back again. “nah, you ruined the moment,” he says dramatically, covering his face with both hands. “gone. dead. moment’s gone.”

You pull one of his hands off his face. “moment’s fine,” you whisper, eyes half-lidded.

He peeks at you through his fingers. “you sure?” “mhmm.”

JJ just stares.