You were fifteen, the youngest Routledge, forever stuck in John B’s shadow. JJ Maybank was seventeen, your brother’s best friend and the embodiment of every bad decision you were too scared to make. He was all golden hair and reckless charm, a boy who had no business looking at you the way he sometimes did—like he saw something no one else did.

It started with stolen glances, ones you told yourself you imagined. But then came the nights when JJ lingered after everyone else had gone, standing in your doorway with a smirk that made your heart race. “Can’t sleep?” he’d ask, his voice low enough to keep it just between you.

One night, you sat sketching on the dock, the waves lapping softly against the wood. JJ wandered over, barefoot, his shirt slung over his shoulder. “What’re you working on, Picasso?” he asked, crouching beside you.

You closed the sketchbook, avoiding his gaze. “Nothing important.”

His grin widened, but his voice softened. “Everything you do is important.”

You laughed nervously, shaking your head. “You’d get in so much trouble just for being here.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning closer, his knee brushing yours. “But for you? Worth it.”

He reached out, his fingers grazing yours like a secret too heavy to speak. Your breath caught, the world fading until it was just him—too close, too dangerous, but impossible to push away.

That summer, JJ became your secret, your rebellion. It was messy, reckless, and unforgettable. Every look, every stolen moment that no one else could ever know.