JJ’s sat cross-legged on the dock like it’s not giving splinters to his ass, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep-ass concentration. The late afternoon sun’s pouring down in syrupy gold, casting everything in that warm, soft kind of glow that makes the marsh look almost pretty. Almost. If you squint.

He holds up this tiny-ass blue bead between his fingers like it personally offended him. “Okay, but why are these so damn small?” he mutters, squinting at it like it’s trying to escape. “This some kinda dexterity test? Are you punking me right now?”

You bite back a grin. He looks ridiculous—blonde curls glowing in the sun, brows furrowed like he’s defusing a bomb instead of making a friendship bracelet. He’d given you hell when you brought it up the other day—called you a “softie,” wrinkled his nose, all that—but the second you pulled out the beads? He was down. Didn’t even hesitate.

Now he’s fully committed, sitting way too close, elbow bumping yours every two seconds, knuckles brushing as he fumbles around with his string like a baby deer learning how to walk.

“Be real with me,” he says, huffing when the bead refuses to go through. “You do this shit on purpose? Tryna make me suffer? You’re sick, you know that?”

You just laugh, and he side-eyes you, mock offended. “Nah, go ahead. Laugh it up. Let the record show I tried. When my bracelet ends up lookin’ like a cursed macaroni noodle, just remember—I did this outta love.”

He flashes a grin, that trademark JJ shit-eating grin, but there’s something warm behind it. Softer. Sunlight catches the curve of it, the gold in his lashes. He leans in a little, close enough that your shoulders touch, like it’s no big deal.

“You better wear this thing every day,” he adds, faux-threatening, nudging your leg with his knee. “Like, 24/7. Sleep in it. Shower in it. Die in it.”

He finally gets the bead through and holds it up like he just won the Olympics, triumphant. “Ha! Suck it, tiny bead.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks hurt from smiling.

And okay. Maybe he was right—you are a softie. But so is he. Just don’t tell him that.