The bonfire blazed behind JJ as he leaned against the porch railing of the Chateau, the glow casting shadows across his sharp features. He hadn’t expected to hear from you—not after the messy fight that ended with slammed doors and promises never to look back. But here you were, phone in hand, staring at the three little dots that appeared on your screen as JJ typed and erased, only to finally send: “Want to come over? No one’s here.”

You knew better. JJ Maybank was trouble wrapped in charm, his reckless grin a siren song you swore you'd resist. But the buzz of cheap beer in your veins and the heat of the summer night made everything blurry. Your friends laughed loudly a few feet away, oblivious to the pull of the boy who’d sent your heart spiraling one too many times.

Before you knew it, you were in your car, lying to your friends about being tired. The drive to the Chateau was muscle memory, the way your hands gripped the wheel tightening with every mile closer. "This is a bad idea," you muttered to yourself, but the thought dissolved when you saw JJ standing on the porch, barefoot and smirking like he knew you'd come.

His shirt hung loosely, like he'd just thrown it on, and his hair was a mess of golden waves. “Took you long enough,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You should’ve turned around, driven back to the party, and never looked back. But the way he looked at you—like the rest of the world didn’t exist—made your resolve crumble. "I can’t stay long," you lied as you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

He didn’t reply, just grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward him, his breath warm against your face as he whispered, "Sure you can."

And just like that, you were his again, even if only for the night.