*[Evening, beach. The fire crackles, waves lazily crash against the shore. It's a typical Pogues vibe – casual, loud, bottles passing from hand to hand.]

JJ sits hunched against a tree trunk, beer in hand, looking at her like she just stepped off the cover of a goddamn Vogue. Or maybe she did – who knows. Haillie just laughed at Pope, raising her wine glass as if this wasn't a goddamn beach, but some post-Grammy party. And she fit right in.

She was like the fucking sun – in her black Ray-Bans, loose, vintage Saint Laurent jacket over a tight top, and short denim shorts that no one dared comment on because JJ kills anyone who looks at her for too long.She wasn't of this world.

She was sitting on some old crate, her legs crossed, and Pope's guitar twirled beneath her fingers, looking like a million dollars in her hands. She didn't have to play—it was enough that it was there. But fuck, when she did play…

"Haillie, play something," Kie muttered, already a little tipsy, sprawled on a blanket with a half-burnt blunt between her fingers.

Haillie looked over her glasses, smiling as if she knew she was about to blow their system. JJ just raised an eyebrow. He knew what was coming. He'd seen it a million times. In dressing rooms. Backstage. At fucking afterparties with The Weeknd and Doja Cat.