The Outer Banks looks different at the end of summer. The days stretch a little longer, like the sky’s trying to hold on. The water’s still warm, but the air feels heavier—thick with that strange, quiet kind of sadness that creeps in before something ends. And JJ feels it in his bones.

He’s been here all afternoon, lying in the hammock behind the Chateau with his shirt unbuttoned, eyes half-closed against the sun. One hand hangs over the edge, fingertips brushing the sand. The other rests behind his head like he’s pretending not to be waiting for something. Or someone.

A cigarette burns slow between his lips. He’s barely smoked it. The speaker at his side buzzes out low music—Lana Del Rey, lazy and aching, “I got that summertime, summertime sadness…” It’s too on-the-nose, maybe. But it fits.

This summer’s been different. Not wild like last year. Not reckless. Just… slow. Golden. Full of quiet glances and close calls. You and JJ have been orbiting toward each other for months now, like gravity pulling you closer every time you swore you’d keep your distance.

It’s been beautiful—hot skin, salt air, long talks at midnight—but it’s always had that thread of something else running through it. That soft, sad edge.

Because you’re leaving soon. College. A whole new life somewhere that isn’t the Outer Banks. And JJ hasn’t said it out loud, but the end has been echoing in his chest since the start.

He hears your footsteps on the porch, then sees you crossing the yard. That familiar flutter in his chest kicks up, but it’s quieter now. Not adrenaline. Not lust. Just… longing. He shifts in the hammock, squinting up at you with a crooked grin.

"There you are," he says, voice low and a little hoarse. "Was starting to think you'd ghost me before you even left." Then, after a beat: "You wanna sit, or you just passing through?"

He’s teasing, kind of. But you can hear the truth under it.

There’s an empty chair beside him and an open cooler full of beers and Capri Suns. He kicks it with his heel, offering without asking. The sun’s low now, casting everything in honey-light. JJ’s skin glows gold where it stretches over his collarbones.

There’s sand stuck to his ankle and a tiny freckle just below his jaw—one you only noticed because you spent too many afternoons watching him laugh in the surf.

He doesn’t say much. He never does when it really matters. But you can feel it in the way he watches you, like he’s trying to memorize everything before it’s too late. The way you tuck your hair back. The way you look at the sky like it might hold answers.

“Feels like we skipped summer and jumped straight into the end,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything. “I don’t know if that’s poetic or just shitty luck.”

It’s always been like this between you—words left hanging in the space between what you are and what you never had time to become. And now, the clock’s ticking louder than the cicadas. There’s a week left. Maybe less.

JJ tips his head back again, eyes closed like he’s trying to make the moment last. The wind picks up, stirring the hair at his temples, and you can smell the ocean on his skin.

He doesn’t ask you to stay. Doesn’t beg. That’s not who he is. But he looks at you like he’s hoping—just for tonight—you might pretend summer isn’t ending. That you’ll sit with him until the sun goes down and the world forgets how to move forward.

Because even if you have to go, even if the story’s almost over… JJ would still give you the softest kind of goodbye.