The first thing you noticed about JJ is the way he moved— like he’s constantly half-running from something, half-daring it to catch him. The air smelled like salt and sunburn, and he sat on the hood of a beat-up truck with a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling against the late-afternoon sky. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to make it look like he didn’t try, and you’re not sure if that’s what makes him magnetic or maddening.

You walked up barefoot, sand sticking to the backs of your legs, thrift-store sunglasses hanging off your collar. You spent all summer pretending not to care about anything. JJ has too. It’s kind of your thing — acting bored, like you’re both too cool for this place, too complicated for small-town gravity.

“You’re late,” he said, but he didn’t sound mad. He never really did. His voice always has this lazy warmth, like he’s laughing at a joke only he knew.

“You said six,” you answered, leaning against the truck beside him. “It’s five-fifty-nine.”

He looked at his watch — the one he stole off John B last month — and smirked. “Guess I can’t be mad at punctuality.”

You reached for his cigarette, taking a drag without asking. The smoke burns a little, but you liked it — the way it felt adult and temporary at the same time. He watched you like you’re a movie scene he’d seen before but didn’t want to skip.

“You think too much,” he said.

“You don’t think enough.”

“Balance,” he murmured, grinning. “That’s what makes us work.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth is, it did. He’s chaos and impulse and you’re sarcasm and control — somehow it fit, like mismatched puzzle pieces that only make sense to you two.

Later, you’re both driving down the coastal road with the windows down, music humming through the static-blown speakers. You rested your feet on the dashboard, a Polaroid fluttering against the wind — one JJ took of you last week, hair tangled, laughing at something you can’t even remember now. You looked happy in that moment. You look happy now too, but in a quieter way.

He glanced over, one hand on the wheel, one arm resting lazily out the window. “You ever think about leaving this place?” he asked, eyes still on the road.

“All the time,” you said softly. “But then I think about the ocean, and the way it smells after it rains, and…” You hesitated.

“And me?” he finished, smirking just enough to hide the hope under it.