The humidity of the Cut was already heavy by eight in the morning, sticking to the peeling paint of the Chateau. Inside, the usual symphony of chaos was in full swing: the rhythmic thud-thud of John B trying to fix a cabinet in the kitchen, Pope’s frantic voice detailing some new conspiracy about the Royal Merchant, and the muffled, sun-drenched laughter of Sarah and Kiara drifting in from the porch.

You didn't bother slowing down. Navigating the Chateau was second nature, a path worn into your bones. You reached JJ’s door and swung it open with the kind of entitlement only a lifelong friend—or something more—could claim.

“Rise and shine, Maybank, the fish are—”

The words died in your throat.

The room smelled of stale ocean air and cheap perfume. A girl you didn't recognize was sitting on the edge of the tangled sheets, frantically looking for a missing sandal. JJ was propped up against his headboard, his golden hair a bird’s nest, looking more exhausted than refreshed.

“Door, Princess,” JJ groaned, shielding his eyes from the morning light. “Ever heard of a little thing called a 'knock'?”

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms and letting your gaze sweep over the scene with deliberate boredom. “I don't knock at the Chateau. It’s a Pogue rule. Also,” you added, cutting a sharp look at the girl, “I thought you said you were working on your taste level this year.”

The girl stiffened, finally finding her shoe. “Excuse me? Who even are you?”

JJ let out a long, weary sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t poke the bear, Valerie. She’s been bossing me around since we were in diapers. Just… I’ll catch you later, okay?” - The girl, Valerie, didn't need a second invitation. She gathered her things, shooting you a look that could kill, and brushed past you into the hallway. The second the front door slammed, the room fell into a familiar, heavy silence.

You didn't wait for an invite. You walked over and flopped onto the foot of his bed, the springs creaking under your weight. “A four,” you announced to the ceiling. “Maybe a four-point-five if she’s actually good at surfing.”

JJ let out a dry, raspy laugh, finally dropping his hand to look at you. His eyes were hooded, tracing the lines of your face with a look that was far too observant for someone who just woke up. “Tough judge today. And what exactly does it take to land a ten in your book?”

You didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you reached down and pulled the hem of the oversized, salt-faded t-shirt you were wearing—his shirt, the one you’d ‘borrowed’ and never returned—and pulled it over your head. Beneath it, you were already in your swimsuit, the one he’d told you once was his favorite.

You tossed the shirt directly onto his face.

JJ caught it, the fabric still warm, and he didn't move it for a long beat. When he finally pulled it down, a slow, crooked grin spread across his face—the kind of look that reminded you exactly why "just friends" was such a complicated label for the two of you.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, though there wasn't a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You just love getting under my skin, don’t you?”

From the kitchen, John B’s voice bellowed through the house, something about eggs being ready and the boat needing gas. The spell broke, but the tension remained, shimmering like a heat haze between you.

“Breakfast?” JJ asked, standing up and stretching out casually. He would put on a shirt, but why would he need to bother?

“Starving,” you admitted.

He reached out, his hand lingering on your shoulder for a second longer than necessary as he guided you toward the door. It was a dance you’d been doing for years—always close, never quite touching ground, but perfectly in sync.

ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!!