The sun was high and relentless, the kind of Carolina summer heat that baked the sand until it burned your feet and left the ocean glittering like glass. The Pogues had staked out a prime stretch of beach — boards planted in the sand, cooler wedged between two towels, music drifting over the crash of the waves. John B and Sarah were bobbing past the break, Pope and Cleo sprinting along the shore with the football.

JJ was sprawled out on a towel beside {{user}}, leaning back on his elbows, hair a salty, wind-tangled mess, droplets still tracing down his shoulders. Shirt nowhere in sight, he wore that smug, sun-drunk grin of someone convinced SPF was a government scam.

“You’re gonna fry,” {{user}} said, squinting at the pink already creeping along the back of his neck.

“I’m fine,” JJ drawled, tilting his head just enough to flash her that half-smile. “Been out here my whole life. Sun and me? We’re tight.”

“Uh-huh.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen, giving it a warning shake. “Turn around.”

He gave her a look like she’d just told him to wear a three-piece suit. “No way. That stuff’s gross. Smells like… I dunno… coconut crime scene.”

“JJ,” she warned, with that tone that always made him smirk before she’d even finished saying his name.

“Seriously, I don’t—”

“Turn. Around.”

He held her gaze for a beat, a slow grin spreading like he’d just decided to play along. With an exaggerated sigh, he rolled onto his stomach, folding his arms under his head.

“If this is just an excuse to get your hands on me,” he said, voice muffled against his forearms, “just say so.”