You had everything you ever wanted. You and the Pogues had started a surf shop on the old Maybank property, turning chaos into calm, and finally building something that felt like a home. No more treasure hunts, no more running from the law—just you and your best friends chasing waves, not danger.

You and your boyfriend, JJ, were on shift today. The heat was unbearable, so you wore shorts and a bikini top with a loose button-up thrown over. Music played through the speakers, and JJ was mid-rant about the “absolutely sick boat” he bought for bait-catching when the door swung open.

A group of guys, maybe college freshmen, swaggered in like they owned the place.

JJ clocked them immediately. They weren’t just here for bait.

Their eyes were all over you, lingering too long, too bold, and JJ felt his jaw tighten. He tried to play it cool, but you could practically hear the eye twitch. You, of course, were just being your usual sweet, welcoming self—totally unaware of the way they were undressing you with their eyes.

One of them leaned against the counter a little too close, pretending to look at a keychain. JJ’s stare sharpened. When you bent over to grab something off the floor, he visibly clenched his fist against the counter.

They finally made their purchase. You rang them up with a polite smile, and one of the guys smirked as he handed you a ten-dollar bill.

“Just keep the change,” he said with a wink.