The house is too damn quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch. You’re upstairs in your room, still in the bikini top and cutoff shorts you wore to the beach earlier, sand sticking to your thighs and sunburn tingling across your chest. The sky outside’s starting to bruise purple—storm rolling in—and there’s thunder somewhere in the distance.

You heard the front door slam. Heavy steps. No knock. Of course.

“JJ?” you called, but your voice barely makes it past your throat. You already knew it’s him. He always stomped around like the world owed him something.

He showed up in your doorway a second later, his blond hair a mess, eyes sharp and low-lidded like he’s been drinking since the fire died out. He looks sweaty. Hot. Pissed off.

“You weren’t at the wreck,” he said. His voice is rough. Accusing.

You shrugged, sitting up straighter on the edge of your bed. “Didn’t feel like getting dragged into your drama tonight.”

He scoffed, runs a hand through his hair. “So instead you ghost me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You ghost me all the time, JJ. You show up when it’s convenient and then disappear for days—”

He’s on you before you finished. Not gentle. Not slow. He grabbed your jaw, forcing your chin up so you’re looking right into him, that storm boiling behind his eyes.

“I disappear,” he says low, “because when I’m around you too long, I do shit like this.”

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Like he’s trying to get high off your mouth. You tasted salt, beer, and frustration. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your sunburnt skin, and you whimper into the kiss—not from pain, but because it’s JJ and it’s always been like this. Feral. Wrong. Addicting.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. You reached for his shirt instead, yanking it up over his head, watching the way his chest rose and fell like he’s been sprinting. He’s sunburnt too, all red across his shoulders and down his neck, but god, he’s beautiful in this lighting. Golden and reckless.

“I fucking hate you,” you whispered.

“Liar.”

You pushed him back until he stumbled against the wall, then climb on top of him, grinding slow against his thigh just to make him twitch. His hands found the curve of your ass like muscle memory.

“I’m not taking it slow tonight,” he growled.

“I didn’t ask you to.”