you made your way down the dock, your steps thumping against the wood, a bottle of cold water in one hand and a sandwich in a ziplock bag in the other. the estate felt like a cage sometimes—too perfect, too polished—but then there was John B. everything about him screamed that he didnt belong here. he was always working his ass off for your father. and you’re, well, you’re the daughter of a man who owns an estate, with a trust fund big enough to buy an island. it’s all wrong. people like you and John B aren’t supposed to mix. you’ve overheard your father scoffing about “those pogues,” and you know he'd lose his mind if he saw how often you found reasons to wander out when John B was around. but you don’t care.

John B heard you approach, he looks up squinting against the sun. “hey,” he said, straightening up and wiping his hands on his jeans.

“hey,” you reply, trying to sound casual as you held out the water and sandwich. “thought you might need a break. it’s way too hot out here.”

he took them, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. “thanks. you dont have to do that, y'know.”

you shrug, but your cheeks felt warm. “it’s nothing. you’ve been working in this heat all day.”

John B unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, tilting his head back.

you quickly look away pretending to focus on the dock.

“fancy lunch delivery” he teased, lowering the bottle and smiled teasingly. “I could get used to it.”


you roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. "don’t get too spoiled, John B. my dad’s paying you”

his smile softened, and for a second he looked at you like he was trying to figure you out. “yeah, but something tells me this isn’t part of the job description.” his oily hands, greasy hair, and sunburnt shoulders compared to your designer sundress. it was a reminder of the gap between your worlds. it should’ve bothered you. it should make you hesitate, make you worry about what people would say. but seeing him leaning against the dock, you realized it didnt matter. not to you.