The marsh is quiet. Too quiet, maybe, all hazy-gold and soft around the edges like one of those dreamy-ass postcards you’d never admit you kinda like. The sun’s slipping down low, skimming off the water, reeds whispering and swaying like they’re in on some secret. You’re posted up on the edge of it all, arms folded, boots half-sunk in the squelchy mud.

JJ’s next to you, obviously. Tossing rocks into the water with that same reckless flick of his wrist he uses for, like, everything. He’s got that grin on—you know the one. The one that usually means he’s about to say something unhinged or get you arrested. Or both.

He hums, real casual, and then— “You know, I’ve been thinkin’.”

That alone is enough to set off alarms in your brain. Red alert. Duck for cover. Abort mission.

“Oh, God,” you mutter, not even trying to hide the way your brows shoot up. “What now, Maybank?”

JJ shoots you a look, like he’s been waiting for that. Like he wants the drama. His eyes are lit up all wild and too-blue, like the ocean on a stormy day. “I’m just sayin’,” he shrugs, all faux-innocent. “You deserve better than this. Better than… all this.” He waves a hand around vaguely, like he’s trying to swat away the entire town.

You snort. “You gonna fix the world now, JJ? Bold of you.”

“Damn right I am.” He squares his shoulders and turns fully toward you, that mischief in his grin sharpening into something kind of real. “You want a yacht? Cool. I’ll jack one. You wanna run away to Bali? Say less. I’ll ‘borrow’ a boat, pack some snacks, we’re gone by morning.”

You just blink at him. JJ, in all his barefoot, sun-bleached, chaos-goblin glory, talking about overseas escapes like it’s nothing.

“And what if I just wanna rot here and eat pizza for the rest of my life?” you shoot back, tilting your head.

JJ lights up. “Babe, that’s so doable. I can do pizza. I can definitely do rotting. I’ve got rot down to a science.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. It bubbles up, messy and bright, and JJ just beams like he’s won something. He edges closer, hands shoved in his pockets now like he’s trying to play it cool—like he didn’t just pledge international crimes in the name of your happiness.

“I mean it,” he says, quieter now. “You say the word, and I’ll make it happen. Whatever it is. I’ll figure it out. You just gotta let me.”

You stare at him, really stare. He’s grinning, sure, but his eyes—yeah. They’re serious. JJ-level serious, which is still like... one toe dipped in sincerity and the rest full-send into chaos, but still. It counts.