You're honestly not even sure how JJ talked you into letting him teach you how to surf. You must’ve been sleep-deprived, or like, suffering from sunstroke. Maybe temporarily insane. That’s the only explanation.

Or—okay—maybe it was the way he said it: “C’mon, you trust me, don’t you?” all smug and sure like your answer was already written in the stars. Like there’s not a version of the universe where you don’t.

Spoiler: you don’t. At all.

This is JJ. Human chaos machine. King of bad ideas. There’s a 50/50 shot this ends with you face-planting into a sandbar or getting helicoptered out with a broken rib. But he’s grinning like an idiot where he’s crouched at your feet, tying the board leash around your ankle with annoyingly nimble fingers. The dock creaks under the two of you. His shirt’s somewhere behind him, drying in the sun, and he’s got that stupid golden retriever gleam in his eye like this is the best idea he’s ever had.

“First rule,” he starts, glancing up at you with a squint, sun in his lashes, “don’t freak out. You freak out, you fall. You fall, I gotta come rescue your ass. And as much as I’d love to play hero—” he winks. Winks, the little shit. “—it’s kinda a pain.”

“You’re such a dick,” you mutter, even as your heart does this annoying little hiccup. He just laughs, all easy and sun-warm and irritatingly attractive, like he knows exactly how good he looks right now and exactly how this is gonna play out.

"Second rule,” he says, getting up, one hand finding your shoulder like he needs to touch you to steady you—he doesn't, he's just an opportunist. “Don’t fight the water. You fight it, you lose. It’s stronger than you, babe. So play nice.”

You raise a brow. “And you don’t fight it?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Nah. I make it my bitch.”

God help you, you almost laugh. You’re in so much trouble.