Rudy King

ℝ𝔼ℚ𝕌𝔼𝕊𝕋𝕊 𝕆ℙ𝔼ℕ 𝔽𝕆ℝ 𝔹𝕌𝕊𝕀ℕ𝔼𝕊𝕊!!!!!

{Fluff= */ Smut= $/ Angst= ^/ Dad blurbs or one shots= ×}

Dylan O'Brian Rudy Pankow JJ Maybank + 2 Sam Drake

{Random Blurbs/One shots}

David Loki's son is sick x

Even detectives worry for the sniffles.

David Loki's son has Colic x

The Sock Crisis 0f 7:03 A.M:

JJ tries to dress his baby girl in socks with tiny bows. She kicks them off with the fury of a goddess. JJ gasps, clutches his chest, and whispers, “She’s rejecting beauty.” He spends the next hour designing custom socks with embroidered affirmations like “I am adored.”

The Outer Banks sun, a familiar, benevolent old friend, streamed through the slightly grimy windows of the Chateau, illuminating dust motes dancing in the salty air. It was a lazy Tuesday, the kind of day that felt like a deep, contented sigh. The rhythmic wash of waves on the shore was a constant, soothing percussion to their new life, a life that was somehow both radically different and exactly the same.

In the center of the living room, surrounded by a delightful chaos of baby blankets and half-empty coffee mugs, JJ Maybank was engaged in a battle of wills. His opponent was small, cherubic, and currently possessed the leg strength of a world-class kickboxer.

Delphine Maybank, six months old and the undisputed queen of the Chateau, regarded her father with wide, startlingly blue eyes—a perfect mirror of his own.

“Okay, Delphi-doodle,” JJ murmured, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble. He held up his prize: a pair of minuscule white socks, each adorned with a perfectly formed, impossibly tiny pink satin bow. “This is the final frontier. This is high fashion. Your mom picked these out. You like your mom, right? Of course, you do. She’s the best. So, by the transitive property of coolness, you will love these.”

He pinched one sock between his thumb and forefinger, a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. Delphine gurgled, a sound that could have been agreement or a threat. JJ chose to interpret it as the former. He gently captured her kicking foot, a chubby little thing with toes like perfect pearls, and began to ease the sock on.

The resistance was immediate. Her leg stiffened, her toes curled into a tight fist.

“Easy now, my fierce little mermaid,” JJ soothed, his shaggy blonde hair falling into his eyes. “It’s just cotton. It’s for your own good. Sand is coarse. Floors are… floory. We must protect the precious feet.”

With a final, heroic push, the sock was on. The tiny pink bow sat jauntily on her ankle. JJ beamed, his signature dimples carving deep into his cheeks. “See? Perfection. You look like a tiny, adorable CEO of a company that makes… I don’t know, professional bubbles.”

He reached for the second sock. It was a fatal error.

With a shriek that was part battle cry, part indignation, Delphine launched her socked foot into the air. The leg moved in a furious, precise arc, a blur of motion that a martial arts master would have respected. The second foot came up in a synchronized attack.

Flick.

The sock, the one he had fought so valiantly to put on, was launched through the air. It sailed in a perfect parabola over the couch and landed with a soft, pathetic plop in Pope’s abandoned textbook on marine engineering.

JJ froze, the second sock still clutched in his hand. He stared at his daughter’s now-bare foot, then at the sock lying defeated across a diagram of a ballast tank. She wiggled her toes with triumphant glee.

A sharp, theatrical gasp escaped JJ’s lips. He clutched his chest, his blue eyes wide with horror. Yn, who had been watching the entire spectacle from the kitchen doorway with a mug of tea in her hands and a smile playing on her lips, raised an eyebrow.

“JJ? You okay over there?”

He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on his daughter, a look of profound, soul-shattering revelation on his face. He whispered, his voice trembling with manufactured drama, “She’s rejecting beauty.”

Yn snorted, a laugh bubbling up. “JJ, she’s a baby. She’s rejecting the concept of things being on her feet.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly, his expression deadly serious. “No, you don’t understand, Yn. This wasn’t just a kick. This was a statement. A philosophical declaration. She looked at that perfect, tiny, aesthetically pleasing bow… and she said, ‘Not today, societal pressures. Not today, conventional attractiveness.’”

He slowly sank to his knees on the sandy floor, a fallen soldier. “My daughter… is a minimalist.”

Yn walked over, her bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. She set her mug on the coffee table and knelt beside him, her gentle hand coming to rest on his back. “Or, and hear me out, the bow tickled her ankle.”

“It’s a crisis of identity!” JJ insisted, his voice rising. “What’s next? Is she going to reject the little duckies on her onesie? The concept of a sunhat? Will she one day look at a sunset over the marsh and just… shrug? My heart can’t take it.”

“Your heart is being a little dramatic,” Yn said, her tone laced with affection as she scooped Delphine into her arms. The baby immediately snuggled into her mother’s shoulder, cooing contentedly, her bare feet kicking gently in the air. “See? She’s perfectly happy. She just doesn’t like things constricting her powerful kicking limbs.”

But JJ wasn’t listening. A spark had ignited in his eyes, the familiar, wild glint of a man possessed by an impulsive, brilliant, and probably terrible idea. It was the same look he got before trying to surf during a minor hurricane or deciding to build a potato cannon out of PVC pipe and hairspray.

He shot to his feet. “That’s it. I’ve got it.”

“Oh no,” Yn murmured, bouncing Delphine gently. “I know that tone. That’s your ‘I’m about to make a huge mess for a very small reason’ tone.”

“It’s not the beauty she’s rejecting,” JJ announced, pacing the length of the living room. “It’s the emptiness of it. The bow is just a bow. It’s superficial. It has no substance. It doesn’t speak to her soul.”

“Her soul is currently concerned with milk and naps, JJ.”

“Precisely! We need to nurture her soul! We can’t just put meaningless ornamentation on her. She needs… she needs substance. She needs inspiration. She needs… affirmations.” He stopped pacing and pointed a finger at the offending sock in the textbook. “The socks have failed her. So, I must build a better sock.”

And with that, JJ Maybank, Pogue for life, loyal friend, and impulsive madman, pivoted on his heel and marched towards the back room where a jumble of forgotten projects and miscellaneous junk resided. Yn sighed, a sound of pure, loving exasperation. She looked down at Delphine, who was now sleepily gumming the collar of her shirt.

“Your dad,” she whispered, kissing the top of her downy head, “is a beautiful, magnificent weirdo. You’re going to have so much fun.”

An hour later, the Chateau’s kitchen table had been transformed into a textile laboratory. JJ had unearthed Yn’s old sewing kit, a collection of embroidery floss in every conceivable color, and a pack of plain white baby socks he’d found buried in a drawer. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth just slightly. The shaggy blonde hair was held back by one of Delphine’s elastic headbands, a bright yellow one that clashed wonderfully with his sun-streaked locks.

He worked with the frantic, focused energy of an artist in the throes of creation. He sketched designs on a napkin, muttering to himself.

“Okay, the font needs to be encouraging, but not pushy,” he mumbled, holding a needle up to the light. “Something with a gentle curve. Serifs? No, too formal. She’s a sans-serif kind of baby. Approachable, modern.”

Yn, with Delphine sleeping soundly in a carrier strapped to her chest, leaned against the doorframe, watching the master at work. The first finished product was laid out on the table for inspection. On the cuff of a tiny white sock, stitched in a surprisingly neat script of bright blue thread, were the words:

I am adored.

“Okay,” Yn admitted, a smile tugging at her lips. “That one’s actually pretty sweet.”

“Sweet is the baseline,” JJ said, not looking up from his second attempt. “We’re building an empire of self-esteem from the ankles up. We start with the foundational truths.”

He held up sock number two, embroidered in a cheerful yellow.

My potential is limitless.

“A little lofty for someone whose main goal is to get her own foot in her mouth, but I like the ambition,” Yn commented, pushing off the doorframe to get a closer look.

JJ was now working feverishly, a whirlwind of thread and cotton. He seemed to be entering a new, more personal phase of his designs. The next pair, stitched in a Pogue-appropriate sea green, was laid out.

The left sock read: My dad is a legend.

The right sock countered with: My mom is the actual boss.

Yn laughed out loud, a clear, happy sound that filled the small kitchen. “Okay, now you’re just using our daughter’s feet for your own propaganda.”

“It’s not propaganda if it’s true,” JJ shot back with a grin, his dimples flashing. He didn’t miss a stitch. He held up his latest masterpiece, this one in a fiery red. “This one is for her rebellious spirit.”

I will not be contained.

“Oh, that’s going to be fun when she’s two,” Yn noted wryly.

He lined them all up in a row on the table: a tiny gallery of foot-based encouragement. There was a purple one that said I am a force of nature. A bright orange one declared I will master the tides. And, his personal favorite, stitched in black thread on a white sock in a passable imitation of a tattoo font: Pogues for Life.

“It’s a complete collection,” he announced, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He looked immensely proud, like he had just solved world hunger. “It’s a wardrobe of empowerment. She won’t kick these off. These… these have meaning. They speak to her.”

“They’re socks, JJ,” Yn said, her voice soft with amusement. She walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder to survey his handiwork. Delphine stirred in the carrier, making a small, sleepy sound. “They are the most ridiculous, over-the-top, and wonderful socks I have ever seen.”

He turned in her arms, his hands coming to rest on her waist. He looked from her, to their sleeping daughter, and then back. A wave of something soft and vulnerable crossed his features, the smart-alecky bravado melting away for a moment.

“I just… I want her to have everything, you know?” he said, his voice quiet. “Even the stuff I never knew I was supposed to have. Like… socks that tell you you’re awesome.”

Yn’s heart melted. She leaned in and kissed him, a slow, sweet kiss that tasted of salt and tea and home. “She knows she’s awesome, JJ. Because she has you.”

“And you,” he added, his thumb tracing a line on her cheek. “Okay. Moment of truth.”

He selected the first pair, the foundational truth: I am adored. He took them with the reverence of a priest handling sacred artifacts. Yn sat down at the table, gently shifting Delphine from the carrier onto her lap. The baby blinked her big blue eyes open, now rested and alert.

“Alright, my little goddess of chaos,” JJ said, kneeling before her once more. “Round two. Prepare to be… affirmed.”

He took her chubby foot, significantly more compliant this time, and slid the sock on. He did the same with the other. He sat back on his heels, a nervous creator awaiting the verdict of his harshest critic.

Delphine looked down at her feet. She saw the socks. She saw the neat blue embroidery. She kicked one leg out, then the other, testing the fabric. A gurgle of delight escaped her lips.

JJ’s face lit up. “She loves them! See? She feels the positive energy! I knew it! It was never about the socks; it was about the message!”

He was beaming, triumphant, a veritable genius of paternal intuition.

And then, with the same divine fury as before, Delphine’s legs became a blur.

Flick. Flick.

The affirmation socks—I am adored—were launched in tandem. One landed in the fruit bowl with the bananas. The other sailed clear across the room and disappeared behind the fridge.

Silence descended upon the kitchen, broken only by Delphine’s happy, sock-free gurgling.

JJ stared at his daughter’s bare feet, wiggling with the joy of liberation. He stared at the empty space where the socks had been. His face was a perfect mask of disbelief.

Yn bit her lip, trying desperately to stifle her laughter, but a snort escaped. Then another. Soon, she was shaking with silent, breathless giggles, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

JJ slowly turned to look at her, his expression utterly bewildered. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked back at his daughter, who was smiling a wide, gummy smile directly at him.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a whisper of pure, unadulterated awe.

“Okay,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Okay. I get it now.”

“Get what?” Yn managed to choke out between laughs.

JJ’s blue eyes were sparkling with a fresh, even more absurd theory. “She is not rejecting beauty. She is not rejecting affirmations.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping low. “She is rejecting the very concept of clothing. My daughter… is a nudist.”

Study Buddy:

JJ HATES that Topper Thronton is his daughter's crush and tutor for her English lessons.

JJ, his perpetually sun-kissed blonde hair a little wilder than usual, wrestled with a stubborn outboard motor at The Wreck. Grease smudged his cheek, mirroring the storm brewing beneath his cool blue eyes. He was usually carefree, a laughing, playful Pogue through and through, but today, a certain tension vibrated beneath his skin.

His daughter, Stacy, all of sixteen and blossoming faster than a summer hibiscus, had been acting…different. Secretive smiles, hushed phone calls, and an unusual interest in Shakespeare, of all things. Shakespeare! Stacy’s literary tastes usually ran more towards dystopian YA novels and Instagram captions.

Yn, JJ’s steady anchor and the calm center of their often chaotic world, had tried to reassure him. “Maybe she’s finally decided to join the school’s drama club, JJ. Relax.”

Relax? JJ scoffed internally as he finally coaxed the motor to life with a triumphant roar. Relaxing wasn’t exactly in his Pogue DNA, especially when it came to his little girl. He was protective, fiercely so. He’d faced down drug dealers, navigated treacherous storms on the open ocean, and even eaten Kelce’s burnt cooking with a smile. But the thought of Stacy, his Stacy, entering the tumultuous world of teenage romance? That sent shivers of parental dread down his spine.

Then came the bomb. Stacy, all wide-eyed innocence, had announced she was having a study session. “English,” she’d chirped, “with Rafe.”

Rafe. The name landed in JJ’s gut like a lead weight. Rafe Cameron. Rich kid, Kook royalty, and possessor of a smirk that JJ instantly distrusted. Rafe Cameron, who just happened to be the same age as Stacy and suddenly interested in verb conjugations. Right.

JJ’s mind, usually a chaotic but effective whirlwind, went into overdrive. ‘Tutoring’? In her room? With the door closed? On a Saturday afternoon when the beach was calling? Absolutely not. His protective instincts, already simmering, reached boiling point.

“Tutoring, huh?” JJ had managed to say, his voice deceptively casual as he wiped grease on a rag. Yn, ever observant, shot him a warning glance. Stacy just nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Yeah, Mr. Thornton said I could use some extra help with Hamlet."

Hamlet. JJ knew a tragedy was about to unfold, and it wasn’t going to be on stage. He plastered on a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Well, that’s…great, Stace. Just let us know if you need snacks or, you know, help understanding…to be or not to be?” He punctuated the last bit with unnecessary air quotes.

Stacy rolled her eyes, a very teenage, very effective dismissal. “Dad, seriously. We’re fine.” And with that, she'd disappeared into her room, the door clicking shut a moment later.

JJ’s head nearly exploded. He paced the small living room, muttering under his breath. Yn, leaning against the counter, watched him with an amused glint in her eyes. “Okay, Pogue, deep breaths. She’s sixteen, JJ. Boys exist.”

“Yeah, but Rafe exists, Yn! Rafe Cameron! It’s like sending a lamb to a pack of…well, you know.” He struggled for a suitable analogy that wasn’t overtly violent. “A pack of…slightly dodgy seagulls!”

Yn chuckled, shaking her head. “He’s probably just helping her with homework.”

“Homework that requires closing the door? In her bedroom? Come on, Yn! Think like a Pogue for once!” JJ threw his hands up in exasperation. He couldn’t stand around doing nothing. He needed intel. Pogue intel.

And so Operation: Shakespearean Spy began.

First, recon. JJ, channeling his inner stealth operative (which mostly involved recalling dodgy maneuvers he’d used to sneak into movie theaters as a kid), tiptoed towards Stacy’s bedroom door. He pressed his ear against it, straining to hear. Silence. Suspicious silence.

He tried the doorknob. Locked. Of course, locked. Teenage bedrooms were fortresses these days. He considered kicking it in, John B style, but Yn would probably kill him before Rafe even got a scratch. Subtlety was key, however unnatural it felt to JJ’s impulsive nature.

Next tactic: Window Peeping. He slipped out the back door, grabbed a rickety old beach chair, and positioned it strategically beneath Stacy’s window. He scrambled onto it, wincing as it wobbled precariously, and peered into the room.

Curtains drawn. Foiled again! JJ grumbled. This was harder than smuggling beer past security at a Pogues vs. Kooks bonfire. He needed a better vantage point.

His eyes landed on the rusty ladder leading to the roof. Perfect. He could access the roof above Stacy’s room and maybe, just maybe, get a glimpse through the gap between the roof and the wall.

Climbing the ladder with the grace of a drunken raccoon, JJ finally reached the roof. He crawled on his belly towards the edge, peering cautiously down. There it was! A small gap, just big enough to offer a sliver of a view into Stacy’s room.

He positioned himself carefully, one eye squinted, the other pressed against the gap, feeling like a ridiculous, overgrown gargoyle. What he saw made his blood run cold.

Not because of anything untoward. Quite the opposite. Stacy and Rafe were…reading. Actually reading. Hamlet, to be specific. Rafe, looking surprisingly un-Kook-like in his earnestness, was explaining something in the text, pointing to the book with a surprisingly well-manicured finger. Stacy was listening, nodding thoughtfully, her brow furrowed in concentration.

JJ stared, dumbfounded. Tutoring. They were actually tutoring. Shakespearean tutoring. His elaborate spy mission had been thwarted by…literature.

But wait. He squinted again. Rafe’s hand lingered on Stacy’s arm a little longer than necessary when he pointed something out in the book. Stacy blushed, a delicate pink creeping up her neck. And Rafe? Rafe was smiling at her. Not a smug Kook smirk, but a genuine, almost…sweet smile.

JJ’s protective instincts flared up again, this time mixed with a healthy dose of confused paternal panic. He couldn’t just stand by and watch potential hand-holding and…smiling. He needed to intervene. But how to do it without completely embarrassing himself and Stacy (too late for the first part, probably)?

An idea sparked in his mischievous brain. He scrambled back to the ladder, descended with slightly more haste than grace, and darted back into the house. Yn was still in the kitchen, humming to herself, oblivious to the covert operation unfolding.

JJ grabbed a saucepan and a wooden spoon, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Yn raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing trouble brewing. “What are you doing, JJ?”

“Tactical diversion, babe. Pogue style.” He grinned, a classic JJ grin that promised chaos and hilarity. “Trust me.”

He crept back to Stacy’s room, saucepan and spoon held aloft like weapons. He took a deep breath, and then banged on the pot with the spoon with all the enthusiasm of a one-man marching band. BANG! BANG! BANG!

“FIRE DRILL! FIRE DRILL! EVERYBODY OUT!” JJ yelled, his voice comically loud.

Stacy’s door flew open, revealing a bewildered Stacy and a thoroughly startled Rafe. Stacy’s eyes widened in mortification as she took in her roof-climbing, saucepan-wielding father. Rafe just blinked, looking utterly confused.

“Dad! What in the world are you doing?” Stacy hissed, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled a ripe tomato.

JJ, unable to suppress a grin, brandished the saucepan and spoon. “Just checking for smoke, sweetheart. Safety first, you know. And loud noises are important for fire drills.” He winked conspiratorially at Rafe, who still looked like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was awake.

“There’s no fire, Dad! We’re just…studying!” Stacy practically groaned, pulling Rafe further into the doorway as if to shield him from JJ’s ridiculousness.

“Studying requires ventilation, Stace. Gotta let the knowledge air out. Plus, you know, snacks. Studying makes a Pogue hungry.” JJ pushed past Stacy into the room, surveying the scene with exaggerated scrutiny. He sniffed the air dramatically. “Smells…intellectual in here. And slightly…teenagery.”

Rafe, finally finding his voice, ventured a tentative, “Uh, hi, Mr…uh…”

“Maybank,” JJ finished, extending a hand that was suspiciously greasy from the outboard motor earlier. Rafe shook it gingerly, clearly unsure what to make of this whirlwind of a father.

“So, Hamlet, huh?” JJ said, picking up the book and flipping through it with mock seriousness. “To be or not to be…classic stuff. Lots of angst. Teenage angst, even. You guys getting into the teenage angst of it all?” He nudged Rafe with his elbow, winking again, this time a little less conspiratorially and a little more…threateningly playful.

Stacy groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “Dad, please! You’re embarrassing me!”

“Embarrassing you? Sweetheart, embarrassing you is my superpower. It’s in the Pogue handbook. Right after ‘how to hotwire a golf cart’ and ‘the best way to catch a flounder with your bare hands’.” JJ grinned at Rafe, who managed a weak smile back.

Yn finally appeared in the doorway, shaking her head and stifling a laugh. “JJ, come on. Let’s leave them to their…angst.” She gently steered JJ out of the room, pulling him away from the scene of his hilarious (to him, at least) intrusion.

As they retreated, JJ could hear Stacy’s exasperated voice, “Rafe, I am so sorry about my dad. He’s…he’s a lot.”

JJ chuckled, wrapping an arm around Yn’s shoulders. “A lot of love, babe. Just a lot of love for his little girl. And a healthy dose of Pogue paranoia. Can’t be too careful with Shakespeare and Kooks, you know?”

The first day of school:

As Finn prepares for his first day at a local preschool, JJ faces his own fears about being a single dad in the Outer Banks community.

The Outer Banks sun was already slinging streaks of gold across the sky, painting the marsh grasses in fiery hues, but inside the Cameron bungalow, chaos reigned supreme. At the epicenter of it all was JJ Maybank, a whirlwind of nervous energy disguised as nonchalant cool, and his four-year-old son, Finn.

“Dude, seriously? We talked about this,” JJ sighed, running a hand through his already messy shaggy blonde hair. Deep dimples punctuated his exasperation as he knelt in front of Finn, who was stubbornly planted on the floor in bright blue superhero pajamas. “First day of preschool. Big boy pants. Remember?”

Finn, all blue-eyed innocence and a miniature version of JJ’s rebellious charm, shook his head with the unwavering conviction only a four-year-old could muster. “Superhero pants are big boy pants, Daddy.”

JJ’s carefully constructed facade of carefree dad was cracking. He prided himself on being laid-back, letting Finn explore, but today, his own internal anxieties were bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill over like a rogue wave. Preschool. It felt monumental. Not just for Finn, but for JJ too. He wasn’t exactly the picture of PTA dad material. Tattoos snaked up his arms, his vocabulary was more salt-laced than sugar-coated, and he still occasionally got mistaken for a teenager himself, despite the undeniable evidence of his son.

He’d spent weeks agonizing over this. Would Finn be okay? Would the other kids accept him? More importantly, would the parents? The Outer Banks, for all its laid-back beach bum charm, could be surprisingly judgmental, especially when it came to straying from the norm. And a single dad, especially one who looked like he’d just rolled off a surfboard and into fatherhood, well, that was definitely straying.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself of Yn. Be patient, her gentle voice echoed in his memory. Yn, who had the kind of serene calm he desperately wished he possessed. He missed her steady presence keenly this morning, the quiet confidence she exuded, the way she could always see the good, even in his most impulsive moments.

“Okay, look, buddy,” JJ tried again, softer this time, his voice betraying a vulnerability he rarely showed. “Superhero pants are awesome for, like, saving the world. But preschool’s… different. It’s like your first big adventure, okay? You gotta look the part. Adventurers wear… explorer pants!” He grabbed the khaki shorts he’d painstakingly picked out, holding them up with a flourish.

Finn’s expression remained unconvinced. “Explorer pants are boring.”

“They’re… stealth pants!” JJ improvised, his smart-alecky wit kicking in. “They help you sneak up on fun! Like, you can sneak up on the cookie jar, or… or the crayons! Imagine sneaking up on a whole box of crayons!”

This seemed to pique Finn’s interest. His blue eyes widened slightly, the mischief JJ knew so well glinting in them. “Sneak up?”

“Yeah!” JJ seized the opportunity. “Silent ninja-style sneak-up! And explorer pants are the best for that.” He even demonstrated a comical ninja sneak, tiptoeing around the living room.

Finn giggled, a sound that instantly melted JJ’s anxieties a little. “Okay,” Finn conceded, though still with a hint of defiance, “but can I wear my superhero shirt?”

“Deal!” JJ grinned, scooping Finn up in a hug. He ruffled Finn’s hair, softer and finer than his own sun-bleached strands. “You’re gonna rock preschool, kid. Just like your old man.” He said it with bravado, but inside, a knot of uncertainty tightened. He hoped he was right. He hoped he could rock this dad thing too.

Just as they were halfway through wrestling Finn into the offensive khaki shorts – a task requiring more strength and strategy than JJ anticipated – Finn suddenly stopped, his face crumpling.

“Seashell!” he wailed, his voice thick with impending tears.

“Seashell?” JJ echoed, momentarily confused.

“My lucky seashell!” Finn clarified, his lower lip trembling. “I need my lucky seashell!”

JJ’s heart sank. The lucky seashell. Of course. Finn had found it on the beach weeks ago and had declared it his lucky charm, carrying it everywhere. JJ had dismissed it as a childish whim, but now, staring at Finn’s distraught face, he understood. For Finn, this wasn’t just a seashell; it was a tangible piece of comfort, a talisman against the unknown terrors of preschool.

“Okay, okay, don’t panic,” JJ said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. Panic was definitely rising. They were already running late, and now a frantic seashell hunt? This day was determined to test him.

He scanned the chaotic living room, a familiar landscape of scattered toys, half-finished drawings, and JJ’s perpetually misplaced tools. “Where did you last see it, buddy?”

Finn sniffled, pointing vaguely at a pile of blankets in the corner. “Maybe… bed?”

They tore apart Finn’s bed, then the toy box, then the kitchen table, then the couch cushions. The seashell was nowhere to be found. Time was ticking by, each second amplifying JJ’s anxiety. He was supposed to be the cool, collected dad, the one who handled everything with a smirk and a shrug. But right now, he felt anything but cool. He felt flustered, inadequate, and utterly terrified he was going to screw this whole preschool thing up for Finn.

His mind raced. What if Finn had a meltdown at school? What if he couldn't make friends? What if he cried for him all day? What if the other parents judged him, saw him as the screw-up everyone always expected him to be? He could practically hear the whispers, see the pitying looks. JJ Maybank, single dad? Yeah, that’ll last.

Just when despair threatened to engulf him, the familiar roar of the Twinkie, John B’s beat-up VW bus, echoed outside. Thank god. He’d called John B in a moment of pre-preschool panic, needing backup. And John B, bless his adventurous soul, had actually shown up, Pope in tow.

The door burst open, and John B swaggered in, radiating his usual sun-kissed, carefree energy. Pope followed, his ever-present calm a welcome contrast to JJ’s internal turmoil.

“Maybank mayhem, huh?” John B grinned, taking in the scattered living room and JJ’s frazzled expression.

“Seashell emergency,” JJ explained, running a hand through his hair again, making it even messier. “Finn’s lucky seashell is MIA, and preschool starts in, like, five minutes.”

Pope, ever the problem-solver, immediately started systematically searching under the furniture. John B, in his own inimitable style, offered moral support. “Dude, chill. Preschool’s not rocket science. It’s, like, finger painting and naptime. Finn’ll crush it.” He clapped JJ on the shoulder, his easy confidence a surprisingly comforting presence.

“Easy for you to say,” JJ muttered, still frantically searching behind the curtains. “You’re not the one sending your kid into the lion’s den of… of… glitter glue and judgmental moms.”

John B laughed. “Judgmental moms? Dude, we’re in the Outer Banks. Moms here are more likely to judge you for not knowing how to surf than for being a single dad. Relax. You’re JJ Maybank. You can handle anything.”

Pope, who had been quietly and efficiently searching, suddenly straightened up, a triumphant grin on his face. “Found it!” He held up the lucky seashell, nestled amongst a pile of blocks.

Finn squealed with delight, snatching the seashell and clutching it tightly to his chest. “Thank you, Pope!” he beamed. “You’re the best!”

Relief washed over JJ. He felt like he’d just defused a bomb. “You’re a lifesaver, Pope,” he said, genuinely grateful. “Seriously, you are.”

“Just doing my civic duty,” Pope shrugged, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Alright, Kook,” John B clapped JJ on the back again. “Let’s get this little dude to preschool before they think we’ve kidnapped him.”

As they piled into the Twinkie, Finn happily clutching his seashell, the tension in JJ’s shoulders began to ease. John B and Pope’s easy banter filled the bus, a familiar soundtrack to their Outer Banks life. They teased JJ about his “dad panic,” but their teasing was laced with genuine support and understanding. They knew JJ. They knew he was more than capable, even if he doubted himself sometimes.

Arriving at the brightly colored preschool, Finn suddenly became shy, clinging to JJ’s leg. The boisterous energy of other kids and parents milling around seemed to overwhelm him.

JJ knelt down, looking Finn in the eye. “Hey, remember? Stealth pants, lucky seashell… you’re ready for this adventure, buddy. I’m proud of you.” He gave Finn a reassuring squeeze. “And… I’ll be right here when you’re done, okay? Waiting to hear all about sneaking up on those crayons.”

Finn sniffled, but nodded, still clutching the seashell. With a deep breath, JJ walked him to the classroom door, where a smiling teacher greeted them. Saying goodbye was harder than JJ expected. He felt a pang of something akin to heartbreak as Finn, small and brave, walked inside, his lucky seashell clutched tight.

He lingered for a moment, watching through the window as Finn tentatively joined a group of kids building with blocks. He was okay. He was going to be okay. And so would JJ.

Turning away from the window, he found John B and Pope leaning against the Twinkie, watching him with knowing smiles.

“See?” John B said, gesturing towards the preschool. “Told you he’d crush it.”

JJ managed a rueful grin. “Yeah, well, almost crushed his dad first. Seashell drama was intense.”

Pope chuckled. “Parenting. It’s a wild ride.”

JJ leaned back against the Twinkie, feeling the sun warm his face. He was still nervous, still unsure of himself, but as he looked at his friends, at the familiar Outer Banks landscape stretching out before him, he realized he wasn’t alone. He had Finn, and he had John B and Pope.

The Three Of Us:

You, JJ and Rafe have a threesome together.

*Sorry this short :(*

The tension in the room is so thick you could cut it with a rusty pocketknife, and honestly, at this point, you’re tempted to try.

JJ is pacing the length of the worn floorboards, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking under his skin. He looks like a stray dog backed into a corner—all sharp edges, defensive posture, and eyes darting around the room like he’s looking for an escape or a weapon. Every time his boots hit the creaky wood, it sounds like a countdown.

And Rafe? Rafe is just sitting there on the edge of the unmade bed, looking like a total prince of darkness, dripping in that infuriating, upper-class arrogance that usually makes you want to slap him. He’s running a hand through his hair, his eyes tracking JJ’s movements with a dangerous, mocking amusement. He’s completely unbothered, or at least, he’s doing a terrifyingly good job of pretending to be.

"You need to get the hell out of here, Cameron," JJ spits out, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register it gets when he’s genuinely pissed. He stops pacing and points a finger right at Rafe’s face. "I mean it. Before I throw you out myself."

Rafe lets out a soft, breathy laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes at all. It’s a cold sound. He leans back on his elbows, tilting his head up to look at JJ, totally unfazed by the threat. "Oh, really? You and what army, Maybank? Because last time I checked, you can barely keep yourself afloat, let alone pull off a stunt like that."

"Try me," JJ snaps, stepping closer, his fists curling tightly at his sides. The raw heat radiating off him is palpable. "Just give me one good reason not to kick your teeth in right now."

"Guys, stop," you interject, your voice sharp enough to cut through the heavy silence that follows, but neither of them even glances at you. They’re locked in each other’s orbits, fueled by months of bad blood, class warfare, and whatever weird, toxic energy has been building between them since the moment they walked into the same room tonight.

"You’re all talk," Rafe sneers, standing up slowly. He bridges the gap between them, deliberately putting himself right in JJ’s space. He’s a little taller, leaning down just enough to make it personal. "You’ve been barking all night. Why don’t you actually do something for once?"

JJ’s chest rises and falls in heavy, ragged breaths. He closes the final inch of distance, his chest practically pressing against Rafe’s. "You think I won’t?"

They are so close you can hear the friction of their clothes. It’s an argument, yeah. It’s a fight that’s been brewing for hours. But as you sit there, watching the way JJ’s eyes drop to Rafe’s mouth for a split second—a fraction of a moment fueled by pure, unadulterated adrenaline—and the way Rafe’s grip on his own jeans tightens, something shifts in the air.

It’s not just anger. It’s an absurd, suffocating amount of unresolved, chaotic tension. They don't just want to destroy each other; they are completely obsessed with each other in this exact moment, consumed by the sheer thrill of the confrontation.

You look from JJ’s flushed, sweaty neck to Rafe’s dark, blown-out pupils. A sudden, wild thought flashes through your mind, so vivid and intense it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

They need a distraction. Or maybe, they just need an outlet for all that explosive energy.

You slowly stand up from your spot by the window, the floorboards barely making a sound under your feet as you step into the space between the two storms.

"Hey," you say softly, your voice dropping to a completely different tone now—low, deliberate, and dripping with an entirely new kind of trouble.

Both of their heads snap toward you, their expressions dark and dangerous, but you just smirk, an idea taking hold of you that you have absolutely no intention of stopping.

You look between the two of them, the smirk on your face widening as you deliberately step right into the suffocating heat of their space. You place one hand flat against JJ’s chest, feeling his heart hammering like a trapped bird beneath his faded tee, and the other on Rafe’s collarbone, right over the expensive fabric of his button-down.

"You two are exhausting," you murmur, your voice dropping into a low, sultry purr that instantly cuts through the aggression. "All this barking, all this posturing... it’s pathetic. If you want to put your hands on each other so badly, why don't you do something useful with all that energy?"

JJ freezes, his eyes darting from your mouth to your hand on his chest. "What the hell are you talking about, Yn?" he gets out, though his voice cracks slightly, the anger suddenly melting into confusion.

Rafe doesn’t say a word, but his eyes darken significantly, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are tracing the line of his collarbone. The silence shifts instantly—from hostile and sharp to thick, heavy, and completely electric.

"I'm saying," you whisper, leaning in just close enough that your breath brushes against the skin of Rafe’s neck while your eyes stay locked on JJ, "that instead of tearing this room apart, you should both take it out on me. Together."

A heavy, stunned silence falls over the room. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Rafe lets out a low, rough chuckle that sounds more like a growl. "You can't be serious," he mutters, but his hand comes up, his long fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist, not pulling you away, but holding you in place.

JJ looks at Rafe, then back at you, his jaw dropping slightly. The raw adrenaline from their fight is still rolling off him in waves, but it’s morphing into something entirely different now. "Yn..." he breathes, his eyes wide and completely blown out. "You... you want him here? With us?"

"I want both of you," you say firmly, stepping back toward the bed and dragging them with you by the front of their shirts. "Right now."

That breaks whatever restraint they had left.

Rafe moves first, a sudden, predatory blur of motion. He lunges forward, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperate, bruising hunger that completely catches you off guard. He tastes like expensive whiskey and pure control, his hands immediately coming up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s dominant and possessive, exactly how Rafe does everything, and a quiet gasp escapes your throat, which he catches instantly with his tongue.

Before you can even fully sink into Rafe's touch, JJ is there. He can’t stand being left out, especially not by Rafe. With a low, frustrated sound, JJ’s hands grip your waist from behind, his calloused palms burning right through your clothes. He pulls your hips back against his front, his face burying into the crook of your neck. His lips are hot and frantic as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder blade, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin, making you arch into him with a soft whimper.

The contrast is dizzying. You are caught in the middle of a beautiful, chaotic storm. On one side, Rafe’s calculated, heavy passion, his hands moving down to forcefully rip your shirt open, his fingers bruising your skin in the best way possible. On the other side, JJ’s wild, unhinged devotion, his hands sliding under the hem of your shorts, his breath ragged and uneven against your ear as he groans your name like a prayer.

Rafe pulls away from your mouth just long enough to look down at JJ, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of challenge and pure lust. "Don't just stand there, Maybank," Rafe sneers, his voice dripping with gravelly desire as he pushes you down onto the mattress. "Help me get them out of these clothes."

JJ doesn't need to be told twice. He drops to his knees on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling slightly with urgency as he tugs your boots and shorts off, his eyes tracking every inch of skin he uncovers like he’s a starving man presented with a feast. He doesn't even look at Rafe, completely focused on you, pressing a row of wet, worshipful kisses up the inside of your thigh that makes your toes curl into the sheets.

Rafe follows you down, pinning you to the mattress with the weight of his body. He’s already kicked off his shoes, his button-down hanging open and completely ruined. He hovers over you, his eyes burning into yours as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slides them down your legs. You are completely bare beneath them now, trembling under the dual weight of their intense, unblinking gazes.

"Look at you," Rafe whispers, a rare, genuinely soft expression crossing his face before it's replaced by raw hunger. He reaches down, his fingers finding your damp heat, and you let out a loud, breathless cry as he begins to stroke you, his thumb circling your clitoris with a practiced, agonizing rhythm.

JJ clambered up the bed, positioning himself right beside Rafe. The tension between the two boys is still palpable, but it’s completely transformed. JJ watches Rafe’s hand moving between your thighs, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Then, JJ looks up at Rafe, a silent, unspoken understanding passing between them. The rivalry is still there, but right now, it’s a race to see who can make you lose your mind first.

JJ leans over you, shadowing your upper body, and captures your mouth again. This kiss is sweeter than Rafe’s, full of the familiar, desperate love JJ always carries for you, his tongue tangling with yours while his hands grip your wrists, pinning them above your head.

You are completely overwhelmed. Every single sensory nerve in your body is firing at maximum capacity. Rafe is below, his fingers working inside you now, adding a second digit that stretches you beautifully, making you slick and ready, while his mouth moves down to suckle at your breast, his teeth grazing your nipple until you are sobbing into JJ's mouth.

"Fuck, Yn, you're so wet," Rafe groans against your skin, his pace quickening. The friction is unbearable in the best way possible. You tilt your hips up, begging for more, your back arching off the mattress.

JJ pulls away from the kiss, his breathing incredibly shallow. He reaches down, quickly freeing himself from his jeans, his length heavy and rigid. He looks down at you, his eyes begging for permission. "Yn, please. I need to be inside you. Now."

You can barely speak, your head rolling back against the pillows as Rafe’s fingers find the perfect angle inside you. "Yes—JJ, please, now—"

JJ lines himself up, his hands shifting to grip your thighs, pulling them wide over his shoulders. With one deep, heavy thrust, he sinks all the way into you. A loud, echoing wail tears from your throat, the fullness of him stretching you to your absolute limit. He freezes for a moment, his eyes closing as he lets out a ragged, guttural sound, absorbing the sheer heat of your tightness.

Rafe doesn't stop. Even with JJ inside you, Rafe’s hand stays planted right against your center, his thumb continuing to relentlessly abuse your clitoris with every single one of JJ's slow, agonizingly deep thrusts.

The friction is otherworldly. You are caught in a pincer movement of pure pleasure. JJ begins to move in earnest, his pace picking up, his hips slamming against yours with a raw, primal rhythm. Every time he bottoms out, Rafe’s hand is there to meet him, grinding against you, sending electrical shocks of pleasure straight up your spine.

"Ah, god, JJ—Rafe—" you scream, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets, your vision blurring with tears.

Rafe watches the way your face contorts in ecstasy, a dark, satisfied smirk spreading across his lips. He shifts his position, crawling up until he is right next to JJ's face. The two boys are inches apart now, both sweating, both panting, completely bound together by the rhythm of your body.

Rafe reaches out, his hand wrapping around the back of JJ’s neck, pulling him down. For a single, insane, breathless second, they aren't looking at you—they are looking at each other, the remnants of their hatred burning up in the heat of the moment. Rafe crashes his mouth onto JJ’s.

It’s a brief, volatile, chaotic kiss—tasting of salt, sweat, and adrenaline—but it sends a jolt through the entire room. JJ groans into Rafe’s mouth, his thrusts into you becoming faster, harder, completely unhinged.

Rafe pulls back, his breathing totally wrecked. He quickly strips off his own pants, his hardness straining, furious and ready. He doesn't wait. He shifts his body, guiding himself to your mouth.

"Take it, princess," Rafe commands, his voice a dark, rough whisper.

You open your mouth willingly, wrapping your lips around his thick head, sliding him in as deep as your throat will allow. You suck on him rhythmically, your tongue swirling around him, while JJ continues to absolutely wreck you from below, his pace frantic now, his hands bruising your hips as he drives himself into you over and over again.

The combination of Rafe filling your mouth and JJ stretching you open from behind is too much. You can feel the climax building in your lower stomach, a coil of tight, white-hot tension that is about to snap.

Rafe lets out a loud groan, his hands gripping your hair as you suck him harder, his hips twitching as he nears his edge. Below you, JJ's pace becomes completely desperate. "Yn, I'm gonna—I'm gonna come," he gasps out, his chest heavy against your back now, his thrusts short and shallow.

You swallow Rafe even deeper, your own body tightening around JJ like a vice. That’s the trigger.

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, your internal muscles clamping down on JJ in violent, rhythmic pulses. JJ lets out a loud, choked scream, throwing his head back as he unloads deep inside you, his body shuddering violently as he pumps his seed into you over and over.

The tight clamping of your throat and the sight of JJ finishing is what pushes Rafe over the edge. With a harsh, ragged cry, Rafe thrusts deep into your mouth one last time, holding himself there as he comes right down your throat. You swallow every drop of him, your eyes watering from the intensity of it all.

When it's over, the room is completely silent save for the sound of three people trying to catch their breath.

JJ slowly collapses onto his side beside you, his skin gleaming with sweat, his arm immediately wrapping around your waist to pull you tightly against his chest. He buries his face in your hair, completely spent.

Rafe slowly pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks down at the two of you, the cold, arrogant prince completely gone, replaced by a man who looks thoroughly thoroughly wrecked. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh, climbing over you to lie down on your other side, his long fingers tangling with yours.

Nudity:

JJ-- to everyone's shock-- becomes a nudist for a week.

The air in the Chateau is always a little humid, but on a Tuesday afternoon in July, it’s practically a soup. You’re sitting on the faded couch, a battery-powered fan blasting directly into your face, trying to draft a new chapter of your notebook without your skin sticking to the vinyl.

John B is on the porch, attempting to fix a broken fishing reel, and Pope is at the kitchen table, muttering over a textbook. It’s a standard, lazy, suffocatingly hot Pogue afternoon.

Until the screen door bangs open.

"Alright, listen up," JJ announces, stepping into the living room. "I have had an epiphany. A spiritual awakening. A literal breakthrough."

You look up from your notebook, ready to eye-roll at whatever new scheme he’s cooked up—probably involving a stolen jet ski or a counterfeit treasure map. But the words catch in your throat.

JJ is completely, entirely, unapologetically naked.

Not "Outer Banks naked," which usually means board shorts and no shoes. No. He is wearing a faded trucker hat, his signature gold chain, a pair of battered flip-flops, and absolutely nothing else.

Pope looks up from his textbook, blinks once, twice, and then promptly drops his highlighter. It rolls off the table and hits the floor in the dead silence of the room.

"JJ," Pope says, his voice hitting an octave it hasn’t reached since middle school. "Where are your pants?"

"Pants are a construct of the bourgeoisie, Pope," JJ says grandly, tossing his keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. He stretches his arms over his head, entirely unbothered by the fact that everything—and he means everything—is on display. "I have spent nineteen years conforming to the oppressive dictates of denim. No more. For the next seven days, I am returning to nature. I am a creature of the earth. I am going clothing-free."

You stare at him, your jaw practically unhinged. "JJ, you’re in the middle of our living room."

"And I feel liberated, Yn!" he cheers, spinning around to face you. You quickly avert your eyes to a spot on the wall just above his left shoulder. "Think about it. No laundry. No chafing. Total, unrestricted aerodynamic efficiency. I’m telling you, it’s a lifestyle choice."

John B walks in from the porch, holding the fishing reel. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at his best friend. He doesn’t look angry; he just looks deeply, profoundly tired.

"JJ," John B sighs, rubbing his temples. "We have a rule about this."

"We have a rule about shoes in the house, which nobody follows," JJ counters, hopping up onto the kitchen counter.

"Don't sit on the counter!" Pope shrieks, scrambling out of his chair like the wood was on fire. "The surface where we prepare food, Maybank! Do you have any idea how many bacteria are currently making contact with that Formica?!"

"It’s totally organic, Pope," JJ says, swinging his bare legs.

By Wednesday, it becomes glaringly obvious that JJ has no intention of backing down. He takes his commitment to the bit very seriously. The problem is, the world is not built for a naked teenager with zero impulse control.

You’re trying to make a pot of coffee when you hear a loud, guttural yell from the porch.

You sprint outside to find JJ hopping on one foot, clutching his backside. The midday sun has been beating down on the black metal folding chairs for three hours.

"The metal!" JJ howls, tears pricking his eyes. "The metal is like a billion degrees!"

"Wow, who could have predicted that bare skin against solar-heated iron would cause a thermal reaction?" you say, leaning against the porch railing with your coffee mug. "If only there was some kind of wearable barrier... some sort of fabric shield you could drape over your lower half to prevent third-degree burns."

JJ glares at you, adjusting his trucker hat. "I’m not breaking, Yn. The path of enlightenment requires sacrifice."

He attempts to solve the problem by carrying a small burlap sack around the house to use as a personal seat cushion. It doesn't help his case. If anything, watching JJ meticulously place a scratchy piece of potato sacking on the couch before sitting down makes the entire situation ten times more absurd.

Kie comes over around noon, carrying a box of leftover pastries from The Wreck. She walks through the door, takes one look at JJ standing by the fridge, studying a jar of mayonnaise while completely bare, and stops.

She doesn't scream. She doesn't laugh. She just closes her eyes, turns around, and walks right back out to her car.

"Hey, Kie! There’s bear claws in here!" JJ calls out after her, entirely oblivious to the psychological damage he’s inflicting on the eastern seaboard.

By Friday, the initial shock has worn off, replaced by a collective sense of resignation. You’ve learned to navigate the Chateau by looking exclusively at the ceiling or the floorboards.

But a Pogue cannot stay inside forever. Eventually, the HMS Pogue has to go out on the water.

"You cannot come on the boat like that," Pope says, pointing an accusatory finger at JJ as they stand on the dock. "The marsh is a biological war zone. Do you have any idea what the local fauna will do to you?"

"The water belongs to everyone, Pope. And so does my body," JJ declares, leaping off the dock and landing squarely in the captain’s chair.

It takes exactly twelve minutes for the flaws in his logic to manifest.

As the boat cruises down the cut, the wind is great for his "aerodynamic efficiency," but the marsh midges—the tiny, relentless, biting insects that plague the Outer Banks—discover a brand-new, completely unprotected buffet.

You’re sitting at the bow, trying to enjoy the breeze, when you hear a steady smack, smack, smack from the back of the boat.

You look back. JJ is driving with one hand, using his other hand to frantically swat at his own flanks.

"Everything alright back there, Tarzan?" you shout over the roar of the engine.

"Great! Fantastic! Never better!" JJ yells back, his voice a full octave higher than normal. He violently slaps his left thigh. "Just... connecting with the local ecosystem!"

"They’re eating you alive, man," John B says from the passenger seat, squinting through his sunglasses. "You look like you have the measles."

"It’s a natural exfoliation process!" JJ insists, though he’s currently twitching like a man who just plugged himself into an electrical outlet.

By the time you pull back up to the dock, JJ’s entire lower back and legs are covered in tiny red bumps. He scurries off the boat, completely abandoning his regal, confident stride for a frantic, bow-legged waddle as he rushes toward the house to find the calamine lotion.

You find him in the bathroom twenty minutes later, trying to apply the pink lotion to his own lower back using a kitchen spatula.

"Need some help there, big guy?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe, fighting a massive grin.

JJ looks over his shoulder, looking thoroughly defeated, covered in pink streaks like an abstract painting. "Don't say it, Yn. Do not say 'I told you so.'"

"I wasn't going to," you say smoothly, taking the spatula from his hand and replacing it with a fresh cotton ball. "But for the record... denim would have stopped the bugs."

The absolute peak of the experiment occurs on Sunday evening. The Pogues are having a bonfire on the beach behind the Chateau. It’s dark, the fire is roaring, and for a few hours, everyone manages to forget that one member of the crew is operating completely outside the boundaries of polite society.

JJ is sitting on a driftwood log—with his trusty burlap sack underneath him, of course—safely obscured by the shadows and the glow of the flames. He’s got a beer in his hand, telling some wild story about a shark he supposedly fought in middle school, and everything feels normal.

Then, a flashlight beam cuts through the dunes.

"Hey! Who's out there?" a voice booms.

John B freezes. "Shit. It’s Shoupe."

Deputy Shoupe walks down the sand, his boots crunching loudly. He’s got his official county flashlight out, scanning the area. The Pogues instantly go into defensive mode, kicking sand over the beer cooler.

"Just a bonfire, Deputy!" John B calls out, putting on his best innocent-Pogue smile. "Just roasting some marshmallows."

Shoupe stops at the edge of the firelight, his hands on his utility belt. He sighs, looking at the assembled teenagers. "You kids know there’s a burn ban in effect on this side of the island because of the dry brush, right?"

"We have a bucket of water right here, sir," Pope says, stepping forward with his usual law-abiding anxiety.

Shoupe swings his flashlight beam around, checking the perimeter. The bright white light cuts across John B, passes over Kie, glides past you, and then lands squarely on JJ.

The entire beach goes dead silent.

The flashlight beam doesn't move. It stays perfectly locked on JJ, who is sitting cross-legged on his log, illuminated like a deer in the headlights of a semi-truck. The pink calamine lotion stains from Friday are still faintly visible on his skin.

Shoupe stares. JJ stares back.

"Maybank," Shoupe says slowly, the flashlight beam trembling slightly. "Are you... are you wearing a stitch of clothing?"

JJ doesn't even blink. He takes a slow sip of his beer, tilts his trucker hat up, and looks Shoupe dead in the eye. "Good evening, Deputy. I’m currently participating in a personal wellness initiative aimed at reducing my carbon footprint."

Shoupe closes his eyes. He rubs the bridge of his nose, the flashlight dropping to point at the wet sand. He stands there for a full thirty seconds, just breathing in the salty air, processing the absolute absurdity of his job.

"I don't get paid enough for this town," Shoupe mutters to himself. He opens his eyes, looks strictly at the sky above JJ’s head, and points a finger. "Put out the fire. Put on some damn pants. If I see you on the cut tomorrow looking like a plucked chicken, Maybank, I am locking you in a holding cell with a bottle of industrial bleach. Do you understand me?"

"Crystal clear, sir," JJ says, giving a polite, completely naked military salute.

Shoupe turns on his heel and storms back up the dunes, his flashlight beam swinging wildly as he walks away as fast as his boots can carry him.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen. The fan is still blowing, the rain from the previous week is long gone, and the sun is streaming through the window.

JJ is standing by the stove, flipping pancakes. He’s wearing a pair of old, oil-stained cargo shorts and a faded gray t-shirt.

You stop in the doorway, staring at him. "The week isn't up until tomorrow afternoon, Maybank. Did the spiritual awakening conclude early?"

JJ flips a pancake with a dramatic flourish, not looking back. He clears his throat, his ears turning a slight shade of pink.

"Let’s just say," JJ mutters, sliding a pancake onto a plate, "that the local tick population doesn't care about environmentalism. Or spiritual breakthroughs."

You burst out laughing, stepping up beside him to grab a fork. "Welcome back to civilization, J."

Pogue Playlist:

You accidentally stumble upon JJ's Spotify, and you're shocked at what songs are there.

The old MacBook on the Chateau’s kitchen counter is practically a historical relic. It’s covered in faded skate brand stickers, scratched up from years of being tossed into the back of the HMS Pogue, and the fan inside hums with a terrifying, jet-engine whir the second you open more than two tabs.

You only opened it to check the local tide charts for the weekend, but John B’s browser is a chaotic wasteland of open tabs regarding sunken merchant ships and local fishing forums. When you go to close out of a rogue window, your finger slips on the sticky trackpad, accidentally clicking open the desktop Spotify application.

It takes a second to load, the little green icon bouncing sluggishly. You expect to see the usual suspects. The Pogues share a pretty standard, unspoken soundtrack: a lot of classic surf rock, Sublime, some scratchy Bob Marley bootlegs, and maybe some aggressive 90s hip-hop that JJ blasts whenever he takes over the aux cord in the Twinkie to look tough.

The account logged in isn't John B’s, though. The little profile picture in the corner is a blurry, low-res photo of a golden retriever wearing sunglasses. The username reads: M_Bank99.

"JJ?" you murmur to yourself, a slight smirk playing on your lips.

You shouldn't spy. It’s a violation of Pogue protocol. But the temptation is a living, breathing thing, especially when it comes to JJ Maybank, a guy who guards his reputation as the island’s resident wild card with his life.

You click on his library, expecting to find playlists titled 'Skaters Die Hard' or 'Rebel Radio'. Instead, your eyes land on a playlist created by the user titled, simply: "Do Not Open Or I Will Fry Your Laptop."

Naturally, you click it.

Your jaw drops. You have to blink three times to make sure the glare from the kitchen window isn't distorting the text on the screen.

The very first track at the top of the queue is "Party in the U.S.A." by Miley Cyrus.

Directly beneath it? "California Gurls" by Katy Perry, followed closely by a staggering, borderline-obsessive amount of early 2010s Justin Bieber. We’re talking "Baby," "One Time," and a track titled "Boyfriend" that has a little heart emoji next to it—meaning JJ explicitly clicked 'Like' on it.

"No way," you whisper, a breathless laugh escaping your throat.

You scroll down further, the rabbit hole only getting deeper and more glorious. The playlist is a literal time capsule of 2000s teen pop royalty and dramatic radio hits. There’s Britney Spears' "Oops!... I Did It Again," Vanessa Carlton’s "A Thousand Miles," and an alarming amount of Taylor Swift’s Fearless album. The thought of JJ Maybank—the guy who regularly kicks down doors and flips off deputies—screaming the lyrics to "You Belong With Me" while speeding through the marsh is almost too much for your brain to process.

"What are you looking at so intensely, princess? You look like you just found the Royal Merchant's gold on Google Earth."

You jump, nearly slamming the laptop shut as the screen door bangs shut behind you. JJ walks into the kitchen, entirely oblivious to the digital bomb you just uncovered. He’s shirtless, his skin glistening with a mixture of sweat and saltwater from his morning surf, a faded towel draped over his broad shoulders. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk and taking a swig straight from the spout.

You slowly slide your hands away from the trackpad, leaning back against the counter, trying and failing to keep a completely straight face.

"Oh, nothing," you say, your voice dripping with artificial innocence. "Just... checking out the local rhythm. Exploring some musical artistry."

JJ sets the milk down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his blue eyes narrowing with instant suspicion. He knows that tone. It’s the tone you use right before you spring a trap on him.

"Right..." he says slowly, stepping closer. His eyes flick from your face down to the glowing screen of the MacBook. He catches sight of the green interface. Then, he catches sight of the title bar.

The color completely drains from his sun-kissed face.

JJ drops his towel. He lunges across the kitchen island like a goalie defending a World Cup penalty kick, his hand slapping down over the laptop screen, forcing it shut with a loud clack.

"That’s private property!" he yells, his voice cracking slightly into a panicked comedic register. "Violation of church and state, Yn! You can't just go digging around in a man's digital psyche like that!"

"JJ," you sob, burying your face in your hands as the laughter finally takes over, your shoulders shaking violently. "JJ, 'Baby'? Really? You have the deluxe version of My World 2.0 saved to your library!"

"It’s an algorithm glitch!" he defends frantically, his cheeks flushing a bright, furious shade of pink that climbs all the way to the tips of his ears. He grabs the closed laptop and tucks it protectively under his arm like a football. "The account got hacked. By Kooks. Obviously. Rafe Cameron hacked my Spotify to ruin my street cred, it’s a psychological operation—"

"There’s a playlist called 'Car Jamz' that is just the entire discography of the Jonas Brothers, J. Did Rafe do that too?"

JJ freezes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He looks cornered, his eyes darting toward the door as if he’s considering sprinting out into the woods to live as a hermit. When he realizes you aren't going to let this go, he lets out a long, dramatic groan, dropping his head onto your shoulder, defeat written in every line of his body.

"Listen," he mutters into your shirt, his voice completely muffled and tragic. "The Bieber tunes have a solid bassline, alright? If you blast 'Boyfriend' while you're tearing down the cut at forty miles an hour, it actually slaps. It’s a scientific fact."

You reach up, running your fingers through his damp, salty hair, still giggling. "And 'A Thousand Miles'? What’s the tactical advantage of Vanessa Carlton, Maybank?"

JJ lifts his head, a small, sheepish grin finally breaking through his embarrassment. He leans his hips against the counter right next to you, looking down at his feet.

"Look, sometimes a Pogue just wants to feel pretty, okay?" he admits, a helpless chuckle escaping him. "Sometimes I’m driving the Twinkie by myself at two in the morning, and the piano intro comes on, and... man, the spirit just moves me. You can't fight the pop hook, Yn. It’s stronger than all of us."

"I think it’s adorable," you smile, nudging his shoulder with yours. "But if Pope finds out you’re skipping his underground hip-hop tracks for 'Pocketful of Sunshine,' he’s never letting you hold the aux cord again."

"If you tell a single soul," JJ says, stepping into your space and wrapping his warm, bare arms around your waist, his eyes locking onto yours with a playful, dangerous spark, "I will personally make sure your phone accidentally takes a swim in the marsh. We take this secret to the grave, princess."

"My lips are sealed," you laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "On one condition."

He eyebrows shoot up. "Name your price."

"Next time it rains," you smirk, "you have to sing the duet part of 'Love Story' with me. Full choreography."

JJ Vs Puberty:

JJ’s daughter, Flo is growing up fast—too fast. One day she asks for deodorant. The next, she’s Googling existential dread. JJ responds with a PowerPoint titled ‘Puberty: A Journey of Sweat and Soul.’ She walks out. He emails it to her.

The salt-laced wind of the Outer Banks had a way of preserving things. It kept the wood of the beach houses silvered and weathered, it kept the memories of hurricane parties vivid, and for a long time, JJ Maybank thought it might just preserve his daughter’s childhood.

Florence Maybank, or Flo, as she’d been known since she could toddle, was a creature born of that same wind. She had her father’s shaggy blonde hair perpetually tangled with salt, and her mother’s kind, observant eyes that saw the world with a calm clarity JJ still struggled to find. At twelve, she was a lanky collection of elbows and knees, more at home on a surfboard than solid ground, and the undisputed queen of tying a bowline knot faster than any of her dad’s old Pogue friends.

To JJ, she was still the little girl who’d needed him to check for monsters under the bed. He was prepared for monsters. He could handle scraped knees, broken sandcastles, and even the occasional tear-fueled argument over screen time. What he was not prepared for was the Monday morning she padded into the kitchen, her expression dead-serious.

“Dad,” she said, stopping him mid-flip of a pancake. “I need deodorant.”

The pancake slipped from the spatula and landed on the floor with a sad, doughy splat. JJ stared at her. Deodorant. The word echoed in the cavernous, suddenly terrifying space of his mind. Deodorant wasn't just a toiletry. It was a symbol. A gateway. It was the first domino in a long, horrifying cascade that led to makeup, late nights, boys who drove beat-up Jeeps, and eventually, a broken heart he wouldn't be able to fix with a tub of ice cream and a bad pirate movie.

“Deodorant?” he repeated, his voice a half-octave higher than usual.

“Yeah. The spray kind, maybe? The roll-on stuff seems… sticky.” She wrinkled her nose, completely oblivious to the existential crisis she had just detonated in her father’s brain.

Yara, his wife, walked in, sipping her coffee. She took in the scene—the fallen pancake, JJ’s wide-eyed panic, Flo’s patient stance—with the serene understanding of a woman who had been married to JJ Maybank for fifteen years. She knew the signs of an impending JJ Spiral.

“It’s just deodorant, J,” she said, her voice a gentle balm. “It’s a good thing. Sign of hygiene.”

“It’s a sign of puberty,” JJ hissed, gesturing wildly with the spatula. “First it’s the pits, then it’s the soul. I’m not ready, Y/N! She still thinks I know everything!”

Flo sighed, the sound impossibly world-weary for a twelve-year-old. “I definitely do not think you know everything. Can we just go to the store after school?”

He agreed, of course, but the trip to the Harris Teeter was an ordeal. He stood in the deodorant aisle for a full twenty minutes, a general paralyzed by the sheer number of enemy combatants. Powdery Fresh. Summer Breeze. Ocean Mist. Active Sport. He ended up buying eight different kinds, a veritable arsenal of antiperspirants. “For options,” he’d explained to a baffled Flo, loading the bag as if it contained biohazardous materials.

That, he thought, was the worst of it. He’d weathered the first storm. He could handle this.

He was wrong. So, so wrong.

The next front rolled in three days later. It was a Wednesday evening, thick with the coastal humidity that made everything feel close and heavy. JJ was cleaning out the filter in the fish tank when he saw Flo’s laptop, left open on the kitchen table. He wasn’t trying to snoop, not really. But the search bar glowed in the dim light, a beacon of parental dread.

The last search query read: what is existential dread?

The fishnet slipped from his fingers and plopped into the tank. Existential. Dread.

Sweat was a biological problem with a chemical solution he’d purchased eight of. But this? This was philosophical. This was Camus and Sartre and the crushing, nihilistic weight of the meaningless void. His daughter, his sun-kissed, surf-loving, barefoot child, was contemplating the void.

He backed away from the laptop as if it were radioactive. He found Yara on the porch, watching the fireflies begin their nightly dance over the marsh grass.

“She’s Googling existential dread,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with terror.

Yara turned, a small smile playing on her lips. “She’s a smart kid. She’s probably just curious.”

“Curious? Y/N, she’s twelve! At twelve, I was curious about how to siphon gas out of a Kook’s lawnmower without getting caught! She’s supposed to be worrying about rip currents and whether Pope will bring over his new drone, not the fundamental absurdity of human existence!”

“So,” Yara said, her eyes twinkling, “what are you going to do? Buy her eight different philosophers?”

The question was rhetorical, a gentle tease. But to JJ, it was a call to arms. A challenge. He couldn't fight the void with a stick, but damn it, he could fight it with information. His information. Curated, father-approved, and presented with the chaotic love only he could provide.

He stayed up until three in the morning, fueled by cold coffee and a mounting sense of paternal duty. The house was quiet, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic clicking of his keyboard.

The next afternoon, he called a “family meeting.”

Flo and Yara sat on the couch, looking perplexed. JJ stood before the television, a laptop connected by an HDMI cable. He held a small remote like a commander about to lead his troops into battle. His shaggy blonde hair was sticking up in several directions, and his blue eyes shone with a manic, sleep-deprived intensity. The deep dimples that usually creased his cheeks with laughter were set in a grim line of determination.

“Thank you both for coming,” he said, his voice grave. “I know there have been… a lot of questions lately. About life. About… moisture. About the very nature of being. And I felt it was my paternal obligation to address these things head-on. With clarity. And visuals.”

He clicked the remote. The TV screen flickered to life, displaying a title slide in a font that looked suspiciously like Comic Sans.

Puberty: A Journey of Sweat and Soul A Comprehensive Guide by ‘JJ’ Maybank

Underneath, there was a slightly blurry picture of him giving a thumbs-up on the Phantom.

Flo’s jaw dropped. Yara covered her mouth with her hand, but JJ could see her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Dad,” Flo began, her voice a strangled whisper. “What is this?”

“This, Florence, is your roadmap,” JJ announced, clicking to the next slide.

Chapter 1: The Pit of Despair (And How to Deodorize It)

The slide featured a diagram of a human armpit with arrows pointing to sweat glands, next to a photo of the eight deodorants he’d bought, arranged in a triumphant circle.

“As we can see,” JJ began, using the remote as a laser pointer, “the apocrine glands are the real culprits here. They’re like tiny, traitorous factories that…”

“Oh my God,” Flo muttered, sinking lower into the couch cushions until only the top of her blonde head was visible.

JJ pressed on, undeterred. He clicked to the next slide. It was a Venn diagram. One circle was labeled ‘Body Odor.’ The other was labeled ‘Nihilism.’ The overlapping section simply said: ‘Middle School.’

“Now, this brings us to the more… ethereal concerns,” he said, his tone shifting from biology teacher to dorm-room philosopher. “You’ve been asking the big questions. The scary questions. And I’m here to tell you: that’s normal.”

Another click. A picture of a stormy sea appeared.

Feeling Adrift? The Existential Sea & You • Is there a point to it all? (Probably! Let’s discuss over tacos.) • Why are we here? (To surf, obviously. And to be kind.) • What is the sound of one hand clapping? (Annoying. Don’t do it.)

Yara had lost her battle with laughter. She was openly giggling, wiping tears from her eyes. Flo, however, was not laughing. She slowly, deliberately, rose from the couch. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated mortification.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking with the effort of not screaming. “I literally cannot do this.”

“Flo, wait! We haven’t even gotten to the chapter on Sartre, Sweat, and Self-Doubt!” JJ pleaded, clicking frantically. A grainy photo of the French philosopher appeared on screen, next to a picture of The Rock flexing. The caption read: ‘Choose Your Fighter.’

But Flo was already at the door. “I’m going to Kie’s,” she announced, and then she was gone, the screen door slamming shut behind her with a definitive thwack.

The silence in the room was profound. JJ stood there, remote in hand, staring at the screen. The picture of The Rock seemed to mock him. He slowly lowered his arm, the manic energy draining out of him, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache of vulnerability. He’d messed up. He hadn’t built a bridge; he’d deployed a trebuchet of embarrassment.

Yara’s laughter subsided. She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Well,” she said softly, her voice still laced with amusement. “You certainly are… thorough.”

“She walked out,” JJ said, his voice quiet. “I just wanted to help. I don’t want her to feel lost, you know? The world… it gets heavy. I just wanted to give her an anchor.”

“I know, J,” Yara murmured, kissing his cheek. “But she doesn’t need you to be her professor. She just needs you to be her dad. She needs to know she can talk to you, not that she’s going to be subjected to a seminar.” She squeezed him gently. “And maybe… she needs to figure some of this out for herself.”

He knew she was right. He deflated with a long sigh, the last of his misguided bravado escaping him. He looked at the PowerPoint, his magnum opus of paternal panic. It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was… him.

He turned off the TV and walked back to the laptop. With a few clicks, he opened his email, attached the file Puberty_Sweat_Soul_Final_Draft.pptx—and typed his daughter’s name in the ‘To’ field.

He paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. What could he possibly say? Sorry for being a lunatic? Please don’t hold this against me when you’re choosing my nursing home?

In the end, he kept it simple.

Subject: REQUIRED READING

He hit send.

An hour later, as the sun melted into the horizon, casting the sky in shades of orange and violet, Flo came home. She walked into the living room where JJ was pretending to read a surfing magazine. She didn't say anything. She just went to the fridge, got a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter, taking a long drink.

The silence stretched, thick and awkward. JJ’s heart hammered against his ribs.

Finally, Flo lowered the bottle. She looked at him, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips.

“For the record,” she said, her voice dry. “Sartre is totally overrated. Camus is where it’s at.”

A slow grin spread across JJ’s face, his dimples reappearing as if summoned by a magic word. He felt a wave of relief so profound it almost buckled his knees. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. A new email notification. It was from Flo.

Subject: Re: REQUIRED READING

The body of the email contained a single, edited image. It was his Venn diagram. She had added a third, overlapping circle.

The Sterile White Hallway:

Easton, you and JJ's son must have a surgery and JJ panics.

The smell of the hospital was JJ’s version of a horror movie. To him, the scent of antiseptic and floor wax didn't mean healing; it meant the sound of his father’s heavy boots in a quiet hallway or the cold sting of a needle after a fight on the docks.

But today, he wasn't here for himself. He was here for Easton.

Five-year-old Easton was sitting on the edge of the tall hospital bed, his small legs dangling. He was wearing a gown that was three sizes too big, covered in cartoon sea turtles. He looked tiny. He looked fragile. And to JJ, he looked like the entire world was about to end.

"It’s just a hernia, JJ," you whispered for the tenth time, reaching out to squeeze JJ’s hand. His palm was clammy, and he was vibrating with a nervous energy that usually preceded a police chase. "The doctor said it’s a routine procedure. Forty-five minutes and he’ll be in recovery eating a popsicle."

JJ didn't look at you. His eyes were locked on Easton, who was currently trying to use his hospital bracelet as a slingshot.

"They’re gonna put him under, YN," JJ rasped, his voice low and jagged. "They’re gonna knock him out. What if he doesn't wake up? What if the machine glitches? What if the doctor had a bad breakfast and his hand shakes?"

"JJ, look at me," you said, stepping in front of him to break his spiraling gaze. "Take a breath. You are scaring him, and you are scaring me. You need to be the Pogue King right now. He needs his Dad."

JJ blinked, his blue eyes finally focusing on yours. He took a shuddering breath and nodded, though his jaw remained tightly clenched. He walked over to the bed and forced a grin—the classic, reckless Maybank smile that usually meant trouble was coming.

"Hey, E," JJ said, ruffling Easton’s blonde hair. "You ready for your big nap? I heard the doctors here have a secret stash of the good orange popsicles. Only for the legends."

Easton looked up, his eyes wide. "Will it hurt, Daddy?"

JJ’s heart visibly broke. You could see the flicker of pain in his expression before he smoothed it over. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Easton into his lap.

"Nah, kid. You won't feel a thing. You’re gonna go to sleep, dream about catching a twelve-foot marlin, and when you wake up, me and Mom are gonna be right there. I’m gonna be the first thing you see. I promise. I’ll be standing guard like a gargoyle."

"A gargoyle?" Easton giggled.

"Yeah. A really cool one. With sunglasses," JJ added, kissing the top of the boy’s head.

A nurse walked in then, pushing a small gurney. "Alright, Easton. It’s time for our adventure. Ready to go to the 'spacesuit' room?"

The moment the wheels of the gurney started moving, JJ’s composure evaporated. He followed them down the hallway, his hand never leaving Easton’s shoulder, until they reached the double doors of the surgical wing.

"I’m sorry, sir," the nurse said gently, placing a hand on the door. "You have to stay here."

JJ stopped dead. He watched as Easton disappeared behind those doors, a small hand waving goodbye until the wood clicked shut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

JJ turned around, his face pale. He looked at the white walls, the fluorescent lights, and the "No Smoking" signs. He looked like he was suffocating. Without a word, he spun around and bolted for the exit.

"JJ!" you called, hurrying after him.

You found him behind the hospital dumpster, pacing a ten-foot stretch of pavement like a caged animal. He was gripping his hair, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps.

"I can't be in there, YN," he choked out when he saw you. "I can't. Every time I’m in a hospital, something goes wrong. It’s a curse. I’m a Maybank. We don't get the 'routine' stuff. We get the 'tragedy' stuff."

"JJ, stop it," you said, walking right into his space and grabbing his shirt. "Easton is not you. His life is not your life. He is in there getting fixed so he can run and jump and surf with you this summer. You are projecting all your old ghosts onto our son, and he doesn't deserve that."

JJ stopped pacing. He looked at you, his eyes brimming with tears he refused to let fall. "I just... I can't protect him in there. I’m useless. I’m standing in a waiting room while some guy with a knife is cutting into my kid. I should be doing something. I should be... I don't know, fighting someone."

"You are doing something," you said, softening your tone. You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist. "You’re waiting. That’s the hardest part of being a dad, JJ. The waiting. The realizing that you can't control everything. But he knows you’re there. He felt you hold him. That’s what’s going to bring him back to us."

JJ leaned his forehead against yours, his body finally beginning to relax. He stayed like that for a long time, just breathing in your scent, letting your calmness anchor him.

"I’m a mess," he whispered.

"You're a Dad," you corrected. "And a really good one."

The forty-five minutes felt like forty-five years. You and JJ sat in the waiting room, JJ’s leg bouncing at a speed that was surely breaking some kind of physics law. He had disassembled and reassembled his keychain three times. He had read a three-year-old copy of Highlights magazine and pointed out all the "hidden pictures" with aggressive focus.

"Family of Easton Maybank?"

JJ was airborne before the doctor had even finished the sentence. He practically tackled the man.

"Is he okay? Is he awake? Did he get the popsicle? If he didn't get the popsicle, I have words—"

The doctor smiled. "He’s perfect, Mr. Maybank. He’s in recovery. He’s a little groggy, but he’s already asking if his 'gargoyle dad' is outside."

JJ’s entire body slumped with relief. He looked like he might actually faint. "Yeah," he croaked. "Yeah, I'm here."

When you walked into the recovery room, Easton was propped up on pillows, looking very sleepy and holding a bright orange popsicle like it was a holy relic.

JJ didn't say anything at first. He just walked over to the bed, took Easton’s tiny, un-IV’d hand, and pressed it to his lips. He stayed like that for a long minute, just closing his eyes and thanking whatever universe was listening.

"Dad?" Easton mumbled, his eyes half-closed. "You're not a gargoyle. You don't have wings."

"I left them in the truck," JJ joked, his voice thick with emotion. He sat in the plastic chair by the bed, settling in for the long haul. "I'm not going anywhere, E. I’m right here. Best seats in the house."

For the rest of the afternoon, JJ didn't leave that chair. He helped Easton eat his popsicle, he helped him navigate the "weird" feeling in his tummy, and he even managed to charm the nurses into bringing an extra pillow for "the world’s most stressed-out father."

As the sun began to set over the hospital parking lot, Easton finally fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. JJ looked at you from across the bed, his blue eyes soft and weary, but finally, finally still.

"He's gonna be okay," JJ whispered, more to himself than to you.

"He’s a Pogue," you smiled. "He’s got the best protector in the world."

JJ looked down at his son, then back at you. "Next time he needs something, though? Let’s make it something I can fix with duct tape. My heart can’t take the hospital lighting."

******************

The Maybank household had been converted into a high-security medical wing.

When you pulled the truck into the driveway, JJ didn't even let Easton’s feet touch the gravel. He scooped the groggy five-year-old up as if the driveway were made of landmines, carrying him into the house while whispering "tactical maneuvers" under his breath.

"JJ, the doctor said he could walk a little bit," you said, following them with a bag of prescriptions and a giant teddy bear Easton had been gifted by Kie.

"The doctor doesn't know the structural integrity of our porch, [YN]," JJ replied solemnly. "One trip, one stumble, and we’re back in the Land of Sterile Hallways. Not happening on my watch."

JJ had spent the three hours you were at the hospital prepping the living room. It looked like a marshmallow had exploded. Every pillow in the house—and possibly a few stolen from John B’s place—had been arranged on the sofa to create a "nest." There was a rolling tray filled with juice boxes, three different types of crackers, and a thermometer that JJ had already calibrated twice.

"Sitrep, E," JJ said, gently lowering Easton into the pillow fortress. "Scale of one to ten. One being 'I feel like a shark,' and ten being 'I feel like a squished jellyfish.'"

Easton blinked, looking a bit overwhelmed by the sheer amount of fluff. "I’m hungry, Daddy."

"Copy that. Initiating Protocol: Pizza... wait, no." JJ stopped mid-stride, his face falling. "The doctor said 'light snacks.' Is pizza a light snack? It’s got bread. Bread is light, right? It’s like... fluffy?"

"JJ, I bought applesauce and plain toast," you reminded him, heading for the kitchen.

"Right. Applesauce. The Pogue fuel of champions," JJ muttered, snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves he had somehow swiped from the recovery room.

For the next four hours, JJ was a whirlwind of over-protective energy. He wouldn't let Easton reach for his own juice box. He insisted on checking Easton’s forehead for a fever every fifteen minutes, using both the thermometer and his own "patented" cheek-to-forehead method.

"He’s 98.6, JJ. He’s been 98.6 for the last four checks," you sighed, leaning against the doorframe.

"Fluctuations, sweetheart! They happen in the blink of an eye!" JJ adjusted his "Nurse" hat—which was just a white baseball cap he’d drawn a red cross on with a Sharpie. "And he hasn't moved his left leg in twenty minutes. Easton, wiggle your toes for Daddy."

Easton wiggled his toes, his mouth full of applesauce. "See? I’m okay."

"High-quality wiggling. Good. Keep 'em limber," JJ noted, scribbling something on a legal pad he was using as a 'patient chart.'

The peak of JJ’s nursing career came around 7:00 PM when Easton decided he wanted to go to his own bed to sleep. This required a full "medical transport" plan.

"Okay, YN, you take point. Clear the hallway of any stray Legos. We cannot afford a puncture wound during transit," JJ commanded. He looked at Easton with intense focus. "E, I’m gonna lift you on the count of three. Keep your core stable. Do not—I repeat, do not—try to help me. I am the crane. You are the precious cargo."

"JJ, he weighs forty pounds, not four hundred," you laughed, but you cleared the Legos anyway because, honestly, JJ’s intensity was as adorable as it was ridiculous.

Once Easton was tucked into his own bed, JJ didn't just leave. He dragged a sleeping bag onto the floor right next to the bed.

"You're sleeping on the floor?" you asked, standing in the doorway.

"I’m 'On Call,'" JJ said, testing the flashlight he’d clipped to his belt. "What if he wakes up and needs a sip of water? Or what if he has a dream about a Kook and his heart rate spikes? I need to be here to monitor the vitals."

You walked over, kneeling on the sleeping bag, and pulled the "Nurse" hat off JJ’s head. His blonde hair was a mess, and despite the frantic energy, you could see the lingering exhaustion in his eyes. He was still vibrating with the need to do something to make sure his son was safe.

"JJ," you whispered, cupping his face. "He’s sleeping. He’s breathing. The surgery is over. You did it. You got him home."

JJ’s shoulders finally dropped. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. "I just... I kept thinking about how many times I had to take care of myself when I was his age. Stitches in the dark, trying not to make a sound. I don't want him to ever feel like he’s alone in the pain, you know?"

Your heart ached for the boy JJ used to be—the one who never had a "Nurse Maybank" to watch over him. "He knows, JJ. He knows you’re right there. You’ve been 'right there' since the second he was born."

JJ pulled you down for a quick, sweet kiss. "Yeah, well. I’m still keeping the flashlight. And the latex gloves. They make me feel official."

"Go to sleep, Nurse," you teased.

"I’m not sleeping. I’m resting my eyes between rounds," JJ insisted.

Ten minutes later, you came back to check on them. Easton was sprawled out in his bed, dreaming of sea turtles, and JJ was fast asleep on the floor, his hand resting on the side of Easton's mattress, his flashlight still gripped firmly in his other hand.

{A chart for the Easton Recovery Center because why not?}

Nurse Maybank’s Post-Op Patient Log 🩺🌊

Patient Name: Easton "The Legend" Maybank

Chief Complaint: "I feel like a squished jellyfish"

Attending Physician: Nurse JJ (Self-Appointed/Highly Unqualified)

04:00 PM

Observation: Patient requested The Lion King.

Action Taken: Initiated movie. Cried during the Mufasa scene. Patient had to pat my arm and tell me "It’s okay, Daddy, he’s a star now."

Nurse Note: Patient is showing high emotional intelligence. I am a wreck.

04:45 PM

Observation: Patient looked at a Lego.

Action Taken: Immediately confiscated all plastic bricks within a 50-foot radius. Hallway is now a Sterile Zone. I tripped on one later and maintained total silence so as not to startle the patient. (I think I broke a toe. Will duct tape later).

05:30 PM

Observation: Patient moved his left arm approximately three inches to the left.

Action Taken: Adjusted four pillows to ensure maximum ergonomic fluffiness. Patient asked if I could "stop hovering."

Nurse Note: Patient is becoming sassy. This is a sign of recovery.

06:15 PM

Observation: Patient let out a heavy sigh.

Action Taken: Conducted a full tactical interrogation regarding pain levels. Patient clarified he was just "bored of applesauce."

Remedy: Applied a glow-in-the-dark dinosaur sticker to his forehead. Vitals seem stable.

07:45 PM

Observation: Patient successfully navigated to the bedroom (with a full crane-lift assist).

Action Taken: Deploying the sleeping bag. Flashlight is charged. Latex gloves are on. I am the thin line between Easton and the boogeyman.

08:30 PM

Observation: Patient is snoring.

PDA (Public Display of Attention):

Kirby, you and JJ's 10-year-old son, bans kisses in public from JJ because they're too loud, mushy and babyish. JJ doesn't take too kindly to this.

(I love affectionate and emotional JJ)

The morning air in the Maybank house was thick with the scent of rebellion and over-steeped tea. Kirby, who had apparently woken up and decided that his tenth birthday was the official cutoff for "paternal nonsense," was currently standing by the front door with his arms crossed, looking like a miniature, much grumpier version of a security guard.

"No," Kirby said, his voice firm. "Absolutely not. Zero. Zilch. The window is closed, Dad."

JJ, who was mid-lunge with his lips already in a pre-launch pucker, skidded to a halt on the linoleum. He looked like someone had just told him the ocean was being drained. "Excuse me? The window? Kirby, the window has been open for a decade. It’s a structural feature of this family!"

"Not in public," Kirby insisted, adjusting the straps of his backpack with a definitive click. "It’s too loud. It’s too mushy. And frankly? It’s babyish. I have a reputation to maintain at the skate park, and 'The Kid with the Sticky-Faced Dad' isn't the vibe I'm going for."

You leaned against the breakfast bar, hiding your face behind your coffee mug. You could see the exact moment JJ’s heart shattered into a million Pogue-shaped pieces. He clutched his chest, staggering backward until he hit the fridge.

"Yn," JJ gasped, looking at you with wide, betrayed eyes. "Did you hear that? Our firstborn. Our legacy. He’s... he’s de-platforming me. He’s cancelling the affection!"

"He’s ten, JJ," you said, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter. "It was bound to happen eventually. Most kids hit the 'don't touch me' phase around now."

"Most kids aren't Maybanks!" JJ turned back to Kirby, dropping to one knee as if he were proposing or pleading for his life. "Kirby, buddy, listen to reason. My kisses aren't 'loud.' They’re... enthusiastic. They’re a sonic representation of my pride! And 'mushy'? That’s just the hydration of love, kid!"

Kirby didn't budge. He looked at his watch—a digital one JJ had bought him that he now used to track his father's "cringe-time." "The bus is in four minutes. If you try to 'sonic represent' your pride in front of the bus driver, I’m walking to school. In the rain."

JJ let out a low, mournful howl. "He’s cold. He’s a glacier. I raised a beautiful, blonde iceberg." He reached out a hand, his fingers twitching. "Just one? A quick one? On the top of the head? I won't even make the mwah sound. I’ll keep it silent. Stealth mode."

"No stealth mode," Kirby said, opening the front door. "I know your tricks. You start with the head and then you go for the 'cheek-pinch-and-smother' combo. I’m onto you, old man."

JJ watched him step out onto the porch, his face a mask of genuine agony. "Old man? Yn, he called me 'old man.' I’m all washed up! I’m a relic! I’m the Titanic and he’s the ice that sank me!"

Kirby started down the driveway, but JJ couldn't let it end like this. He scrambled to his feet, sprinting to the screen door. He didn't go outside—he respected the "public" boundary by about two inches—but he pressed his face against the mesh, his lips puckered out in a desperate, desperate silent plea.

"I’m still here, Kirby!" JJ muffled through the screen, his voice sounding like a distorted radio signal. "The love doesn't stop just because the bus does! I’ll be here when you get back! I’ll be practicing! I’ll be perfecting the 'Ultra-Quiet-Non-Babyish-Cool-Dad' peck!"

Kirby didn't look back, but you saw his shoulders shake. He was definitely fighting a smile. He raised a hand in a quick wave without turning around—the universal sign for 'You're embarrassing, but I still like you.'

JJ slumped against the doorframe, watching the yellow bus disappear around the corner. He looked at you, his eyes soulful and pathetic.

"He’s gone, Yn. He’s out there in the world, un-kissed and vulnerable. What if he forgets what my stubble feels like against his cheek? What if he joins a cult that forbids physical contact?"

"He’s going to fifth grade, JJ," you laughed, walking over to wrap your arms around his waist. "He’ll be back at 3:00 PM asking for a grilled cheese. You’ll survive."

JJ sighed, leaning his head on yours, though he still looked out the window with a distant, longing gaze. "I’m gonna need a lot of emotional support today. And by emotional support, I mean I’m going to spend the next six hours inventing a way to kiss him via drone."

"Don't you dare," you warned, but you knew him too well. By the time Kirby got home, JJ would definitely have some sort of elaborate "loophole" ready.

"A Pogue never gives up on the pucker, Yn," JJ whispered heroically. "Never."

The afternoon sun beat down on the Chateau, but for JJ, it was a dark, desolate winter of the soul. He was sprawled across a moth-eaten armchair, a cold beer sweating in his hand, staring at the ceiling like he was searching for the meaning of life in the cobwebs.

"He’s gone, Pope," JJ croaked, his voice thick with the drama of a thousand soap operas. "My boy. My pride. My little mini-me. He’s... he’s de-kissed me. He’s gone rogue. He’s a lone wolf now, howling at the moon and avoiding paternal affection."

Pope sighed, looking up from a textbook. "JJ, he’s ten. He just doesn't want you making a 'shlurp' sound against his ear in front of the girl he likes. It’s basic social survival."

"It’s a betrayal of the highest order!" JJ bolted upright, his eyes wild. "And I’ve called this emergency meeting for a reason. Kie, Sarah, get over here. We’re staging an intervention. Not for me—for Kirby."

Kie rolled her eyes, leaning against the porch railing. "JJ, if this involves a kidnapping or a 'fake emergency' just to get a hug, I’m out."

"No, no," JJ waved her off, his brain clearly firing at dangerous speeds. "We need a tactical approach. A 'Cool-Dad' rebrand. If I can't be mushy, I have to be legendary. I need to be so cool that he wants to be associated with my face. Sarah, you’re a Kook—well, reformed—what’s the high-society version of a 'good job' kiss?"

Sarah bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "Usually a stiff pat on the shoulder and a trust fund, JJ. Not really your vibe."

The conversation was interrupted by the low, expensive rumble of an engine. A pristine silver SUV pulled into the gravel driveway, and to everyone’s collective confusion, Rafe Cameron and Topper stepped out. They looked uncomfortable, like they’d accidentally wandered into a restricted zone.

"What do you want, Rafe?" John B asked, stepping off the porch, his hand instinctively going to his hip.

Rafe held up his hands, his expression unusually subdued. "Relax, JB. We’re not here for a fight. We... uh... we heard JJ’s kid put him on a 'No-Fly Zone' for affection."

JJ squinted at them. "How do you know that? Are you stalking my ten-year-old?"

"I saw it at the skate park," Topper admitted, looking at his boat shoes. "Kirby told my little cousin that 'dads are for high-fives and ATM withdrawals only.' It... it hit a nerve."

Rafe cleared his throat, looking away toward the marsh. "Look, Maybank. I get it. My old man... well, you know. Ward wasn't exactly a 'kisses on the cheek' kind of guy. It was all cold stares and 'do better.' If your kid is shutting you out, you gotta nip that in the bud. Trust me, the 'cold and distant' thing? It’s a slippery slope to, you know, accidental felonies."

Topper nodded solemnly. "My mom stopped hugging me when I turned twelve because it 'mussed up my polo.' Now I have three therapists and a deep-seated need for external validation. Don't let Kirby become... well, me."

JJ stared at them, genuinely moved. "Rafe. Topper. I never thought I’d say this, but... you guys are making a lot of sense. The Pogue-Kook war is officially paused for the preservation of the Maybank Pucker."

"So, what's the plan?" Sarah asked, looking between the two groups.

"Operation: Stealth Smooch," JJ declared, his grin returning with a vengeance. "Rafe, you’ve got the fancy gear. Topper, you’ve got the 'respectable' look. We’re going to the school pick-up line. We’re gonna stage a 'Public Coolness' event so epic that Kirby won't even realize I'm planting a seed of affection until it’s too late."

An hour later, the school bell rang. Kirby walked out of the building, chatting with a group of friends, trying his best to look like he didn't have a care in the world.

Suddenly, a fleet of vehicles pulled up. John B’s beat-up Twinkie was flanked by Rafe’s SUV and Topper’s convertible. Music was blasting—nothing embarrassing, just some high-octane indie rock.

JJ hopped out of the Twinkie, wearing his best leather jacket and a pair of aviators. Behind him, Rafe and Topper stood like a pair of high-end bodyguards, looking intimidatingly stylish.

"Yo, Kirby!" JJ called out, his voice cool and effortless. "Need a lift, Pogue?"

Kirby’s friends went silent. "Whoa, Kirby, is that your dad? And are those... are those the guys from the country club?"

Kirby looked stunned. He walked over, his eyes wide. "Dad? What’s going on?"

"Just checking in on my best recruit," JJ said, leaning against the van. He didn't lunge. He didn't pucker. He just gave Kirby a sharp, professional nod. "Rafe here was just telling me you’ve got the best kickflip in the county. Topper wants to know if you want to test out his new boat this weekend."

Rafe gave a stiff, "Kook-approved" nod. "Kid’s a natural, Maybank."

Kirby’s chest puffed out. He looked at his friends, who were practically vibrating with jealousy. "Yeah, I mean... it’s whatever."

"Right on," JJ said. He stepped forward, and for a second, Kirby tensed, expecting the 'shlurp.'

But JJ was a master of the long game. He just reached out and gripped Kirby’s shoulder, a firm, manly squeeze. "Proud of you, kid. See you at home."

As Kirby turned to walk toward the van, JJ caught Rafe’s eye. Rafe gave a subtle, "do it now" wink.

As Kirby passed him, JJ leaned down—quick as a cobra—and pressed a lightning-fast, silent, but very firm kiss to the side of Kirby’s head. It was over in half a second. No sound. No mush. Just a ghost of a Dad-moment.

Kirby froze. He looked up at JJ, then at Rafe and Topper, who were both looking at him with "cool-guy" approval.

"Nice move, kid," Topper said, pretending to check his watch. "Very elite."

Kirby didn't protest. He didn't complain. He just climbed into the van, a tiny, triumphant smirk on his face.

As the convoy pulled away, JJ slumped into the passenger seat next to you, a look of pure, unadulterated victory on his face.

"Did you see that, Yn?" JJ whispered, his eyes shining. "The Kook-assisted Stealth Smooch. I’m back in the game. I’m the MVP."

"You’re a lunatic, JJ," you laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek—which he accepted with a very loud, very mushy mwah of his own. "But I have to admit, seeing Rafe Cameron help you get a kiss was not on my 2026 bingo card."

"Whatever it takes, Yn," JJ sighed happily, watching Kirby chat with John B in the back. "Whatever it takes to keep the anchor down."

---

The sun began to set over the Marsh, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gold—the kind of colors JJ always said looked like a Pogue who’d won a fight.

The "Peace Treaty of the Pucker" had held for exactly four hours. Back at the Chateau, the adrenaline of the high-stakes school pickup had faded, replaced by the familiar hum of a grill and the sound of a stray dog barking at a crab.

JJ was currently sprawled in a hammock, his boots dangling over the edge. Kirby was sitting on the grass nearby, methodically picking the wheels off his skateboard to clean them, looking suspiciously content for a kid who had claimed to be "over" his father’s antics.

"Hey, Kirbs," JJ called out, his voice dropping that 'Cool-Dad' bass and returning to its usual, slightly chaotic pitch.

Kirby didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"You know that Rafe and Topper only helped me because they’re terrified of my raw emotional power, right?" JJ grinned, swinging the hammock with his heel. "They saw a man who loves his son so much he’s willing to cause a scene in front of a crossing guard, and they realized they were in the presence of greatness."

Kirby finally looked up, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "Dad, they helped you because they felt sorry for you. Topper literally whispered 'don't cry, man' when you started tearing up in the parking lot."

"I wasn't crying!" JJ squawked, sitting bolt upright. "That was... sea spray! Inland sea spray! It’s a meteorological phenomenon, Yn, tell him!"

You walked out onto the porch, leaning against the railing with a smirk. "I don't know, J. I definitely saw a sniffle. It was very 'The Notebook' of you."

JJ groaned, falling back into the hammock with a dramatic thump. "I’m surrounded by critics. Traitors in my own house. I finally get a covert kiss in, and now I’m being gaslit about my tear ducts."

Kirby stood up, dusting the grit off his knees. He walked over to the hammock, looking down at his dad. For a second, the "ten-year-old wall" went back up—the one that said he was too old for this, too cool for the mush, too grown for the Maybank traditions.

Then, he reached out and gave the hammock a rough, affectionate shove. "It’s okay, Dad. You can cry. Just don't do the pucker face tomorrow morning, okay? We had a deal. Stealth mode only."

JJ looked up at him, his blue eyes softening in a way that always made your chest tighten. "Stealth mode. Got it. Like a ninja. A ninja who loves you very much and might occasionally leave a 'shlurp' sound on your voicemail."

Kirby rolled his eyes, but as he turned to head inside for dinner, he leaned over and gave JJ’s shoulder a firm, lingering pat—the kind of "man-to-man" contact Rafe and Topper had modeled, but with a lot more heart behind it.

JJ watched him go, then looked at you. He looked down at his own hands, then back at the door where his son had disappeared.

"He’s gonna be okay, isn't he?" JJ whispered, his voice losing the joke. "He’s gonna grow up, and he’s gonna be tough, and he’s gonna be a better man than I ever was... but he’s still gonna remember the anchor?"

You walked over, sitting on the edge of the hammock and taking his hand. "JJ, he’s a Maybank. He couldn't forget the anchor if he tried. You’ve weighted him down with so much love he’s practically underwater."

JJ pulled you down into the hammock with him, his arms wrapping around you with that fierce, protective grip he’d had since you were teenagers. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of home.

"Good," JJ murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "Because I’ve got a lot more where that came from. And tomorrow? I’m thinking about hiring a skywriter. 'KISS YOUR DAD, KIRBY.' In neon pink. Just to keep him humble."

"Don't you dare," you laughed, swatting his arm.

Tension:

You massage JJ's shoulders after a long day working, and JJ wants more.

The golden hour was bleeding into the humid evening, casting long, honey-colored shadows across the porch of the Chateau. JJ had been pulling double shifts at the charter docks all week—hauling heavy gear, scrubbing salt-crusted decks, and dealing with tourists who had more money than manners. By the time he’d stumbled home, his sun-bleached hair was wild and his shoulders were pulled up to his ears in a permanent state of tension.

"Sit," you commanded softly, holding out a sweating mason jar.

JJ didn't argue. He collapsed into the wooden kitchen chair, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards. He took the ice-cold lemonade, the condensation dripping down his tanned fingers, and drained half of it in one long, desperate gulp.

"Yn," he wheezed, the tart citrus clearly hitting the spot. "You are a saint. A literal, halo-wearing angel sent to save me from a life of manual labor and dehydration."

He let out a heavy sigh and reached up, tugging his sweat-stained t-shirt over his head. He tossed it onto the counter, revealing the broad, lean expanse of his back. The muscles there were tight, knotted from hours of repetitive lifting, his skin glowing a deep bronze in the fading light.

You stepped behind him, your hands still slightly cool from the fridge, and pressed your palms into the tops of his shoulders.

JJ let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whimper. "Oh... God."

"You’re like a piece of rebar, JJ," you murmured, your thumbs finding a particularly stubborn knot near his shoulder blade. "How do you even move?"

"With great difficulty and a lot of spite," he muttered, his head lolling forward.

As you began to work, using your knuckles to knead the tension out of the base of his neck, JJ’s entire frame seemed to liquefy. He leaned back into you, his breathing slowing down for the first time all day. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin—that specific "JJ scent" of salt, expensive sunscreen, and hard work.

Your hands moved rhythmically, tracing the line of his spine before fanning out across his lats. Every time you applied a bit more pressure, JJ let out a low, rumbling hum of approval that vibrated against your palms.

"Don't stop," he whispered, his voice thick with sleepiness. "If you stop, I might actually turn into a statue right here. You’ve got the magic touch, Yn. Seriously. You could charge a thousand bucks an hour for this. We’d be Kooks by Friday."

"I think I’ll stick to the private practice," you teased, leaning down to press a quick kiss to the back of his neck.

JJ reached back, blindly grabbing your hand and pulling it back to his shoulder. "No, no. No kissing yet. More kneading. Right there... left a little... yeah. Right there."

He closed his eyes, a small, blissful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. For a guy who spent his whole life running, fighting, or trying to stay one step ahead of the world, this was the only time he truly went still.

"You're the best, you know that?" JJ murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of the crickets starting up in the marsh. "Most people just get a 'good job, J.' I get the lemonade and the professional-grade massage. I’m the luckiest Pogue in the hemisphere."

"You're just an easy patient," you replied, digging your thumbs in one last time.

"Easy?" JJ chuckled, his eyes still closed. "I'm a mess. But I'm your mess. Now... keep going. My lower back is feeling very neglected, and I think I've got at least another three hours of 'patient' in me."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the low hum of the crickets outside fading into the background as the massage shifted from a moment of recovery into something much more electric. JJ was still draped over the chair, his head lolled forward, but his breath hitched the moment he heard the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floorboards behind him.

When you stepped back into his line of sight, shedding your tank top to reveal the delicate, intricate lace of your bra, JJ’s eyes blew wide. He didn't move—he couldn't. He watched, mesmerized, as you slid out of your shorts, leaving you in the matching thong that left very little to his imagination. The golden sunset light caught the curves of your body, casting a glow that made the breath hitch in his throat.

"Yn..." he rasped, his voice cracking. The lemonade sat forgotten on the table as his hands gripped the edges of the wooden chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

You didn't say a word. You stepped closer, moving with a slow, deliberate grace that had his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. You climbed onto the chair behind him, straddling his waist and pressing your chest firmly against the broad, warm expanse of his bare back.

JJ let out a jagged groan, his head falling back against your shoulder. The friction of your body against his—the softness of your skin meeting the hard, tense muscle of his spine—sent a jolt through him that effectively erased every ounce of exhaustion from his long day.

As you began to move, a slow, rhythmic grind that traced the length of his spine, JJ’s hands flew back to find your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin. He was already straining against his jeans, the sudden, heavy arousal making him shift restlessly beneath you.

"You're killing me," he muttered, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt the lace of your bra dragging against his skin. "I thought I was the one getting the treatment, but this... this is a different kind of torture, Yn."

You leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you continued the slow, torturous dance over his back. "Is it working?" you whispered.

JJ let out a low, guttural laugh that was more of a growl. He turned his head, catching your lips in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted like sea salt and heat. "Oh, it's working. I think I just forgot how to breathe. Forget the massage—I think I’ve got a much better idea for how to spend the rest of the night."

Bikini Bottoms:

Yn's bikini top falls off in the hot tub; JJ's ogling of her doesn't help matters.

The hot tub at the Chateau had seen better days. Better decades, actually. It was the kind of relic you'd find in a junkyard and think, wow, that's a health hazard, before walking away. But JJ Maybank had dragged it onto the back deck, patched a leak with flex seal and a prayer, and declared it "the pinnacle of Pogue luxury." The water was perpetually a few degrees too hot, the jets sounded like a dying walrus, and the filter hadn't been cleaned since the Obama administration.

But it was theirs, and on a humid North Carolina night with the fireflies blinking lazily over the marsh, it was perfect.

Yn-- was elbow-deep in the water, her hair piled into a messy bun that was already starting to unravel from the steam. She had her eyes closed, letting the too-hot water scald the tension out of her shoulders. Finals were over. The Kooks had been surprisingly quiet for a whole forty-eight hours. For once, nothing was actively on fire.

JJ was across from her, lounging with his arms draped over the cracked plastic edge, looking like a wet raccoon that had just won the lottery. His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, and he had that particular grin on his face—the one that meant he was either about to say something incredibly stupid or incredibly charming. Usually, it was both.

"This is nice," Yn-- murmured, not opening her eyes. "Peaceful. Relaxing. You're being quiet."

"Don't jinx it," JJ said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. "I'm savoring the moment. The silence. The ambiance. The view."

Yn-- cracked one eye open. "The view of the marsh?"

"Sure," JJ said, his grin widening. "The marsh. That's definitely what I was looking at. Very scenic. Lot of... mud. And grass. Beautiful."

Yn-- snorted and closed her eye again. "You're a menace."

"Menace is a strong word," JJ said, shifting in the water. "I prefer 'visionary.' Or 'chaos architect.' Or 'the best thing that ever happened to that bikini you're wearing.'"

Yn-- felt her cheeks warm, and it wasn't from the steam. She was wearing a tiny red bikini—the one she'd had since eighth grade, which was a testament to either her dedication to thrift or her refusal to admit she'd grown since then. The top was a triangle situation held together by a single, questionable string around her neck and another flimsy string between her shoulder blades. It had been a gamble when she'd put it on.

She'd lost.

Because as she shifted to swat at a mosquito buzzing near her ear, she felt the unmistakable twang of the neck string snapping.

And then, in slow motion, the top drifted away from her body like a scarlet leaf in autumn, disappearing into the bubbling, murky depths of the hot tub.

For a solid three seconds, there was silence.

Yn-- froze, her arms still half-raised, her brain buffering. The hot water lapped at her collarbones, and she was acutely, painfully aware that she was now chest-naked in a hot tub with the single most unhinged person on the Outer Banks.

She looked down. The water was too cloudy with chlorine and who-knows-what to see anything.

She looked up.

JJ was staring.

His mouth was slightly open. His eyes—those stupid, impossibly blue eyes—were wide and fixed. His brain, she could tell, had short-circuited. The grin had vanished, replaced by the slack-jawed expression of a man who had just witnessed a miracle and wasn't sure if he should pray or take a picture.

"JJ," she said, her voice dangerously calm.

He didn't respond. He blinked once. Slowly.

"JJ," she repeated, a little sharper. "My top fell off."

He nodded. Still staring. Still not blinking.

"Can you... help me find it?"

Another nod. Another blink. "Mhm."

But he didn't move. He didn't even look for it. His eyes, the traitors, stayed locked on the general vicinity of her chest, which was now partially obscured by a few bubbles and the faint, shifting shadows of the water.

"JJ," she hissed, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "Eyes up here. Up here."

He blinked several times, and for a second, his gaze flicked to her face. Then it dropped back down. "Nope. Can't do it. Sorry. The pull is too strong. I'm like a moth to a flame. A very pale, very wet, very... topless flame."

"Oh my god." Yn-- made a grab for the water, sweeping her arms in a wide arc, trying to feel for the fabric. The jets chose that moment to kick on at full blast, churning the water into a frothy, opaque mess. The sound of the dying-walrus motor filled the night, and whatever hope she'd had of locating the bikini top by feel vanished.

"Little help here?" she said through gritted teeth.

JJ leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin propped in his hands like he was watching a nature documentary. "You know, I'm getting a really good look at the marsh from this angle."

"I hate you."

"You don't hate me," he said, utterly unbothered. "You're just saying that because you're naked and I'm being an unhelpful gremlin. Which, fair. But also—" he gestured vaguely with one hand, "—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I'm not gonna rush it."

Yn-- felt a hot flush of embarrassment, but underneath it, there was something else. Something that smelled a lot like amusement. This was so classic JJ. Any other guy would have fumbled, apologized, gone into a panicked search mode. Not him. He was treating this like the highlight of his year.

"Once in a lifetime?" she repeated, arching an eyebrow as she sank lower into the water, letting it rise to her chin. "You say that like you're expecting me to spontaneously combust after tonight."

"No, no," JJ said, waving a hand. "I'm saying you're gonna get wiser. Smarter. You're gonna start wearing bikinis with industrial-strength clasps. This is the last time I'll ever see you in a flimsy, poorly-constructed, incredibly—" he paused, tilting his head, "—generous piece of fabric. I'm savoring the moment."

"Generous?"

"Very generous. Top-tier. A+ material. The strings were doing the lord's work, and they finally gave out. RIP to those heroes. They died for a noble cause."

Yn-- splashed a wave of water at his face. He didn't even flinch. He just sputtered a little, wiped his eyes, and grinned at her with that crooked, infuriating smile.

"You're not even a little embarrassed, are you?" she demanded.

"Embarrassed?" JJ's brows shot up. "Babe, I'm thriving. This is the best thing that's happened to me since I found a hundred-dollar bill in a dead fish's mouth."

"That's disgusting."

"That's luck, Yn--. Don't knock the fish."

She shook her head, but a laugh bubbled up in her chest despite herself. The situation was so absurd, so unbelievably JJ, that she couldn't even stay properly mad. Here she was, topless in a disgusting hot tub, while her pseudo-best-friend-slash-crush sat three feet away, watching her with the unhinged delight of a raccoon who'd just discovered a trash can full of leftover pizza.

"You realize I can't get out of the hot tub now, right?" she said, gesturing with a frustrated hand. "I'm stuck here until you find my top. Or until I drown. Whichever comes first."

JJ considered this, tapping his chin. "Hm. So you're saying... you're trapped. In a hot tub. With me."

"I'm saying I'm trapped in a dirty hot tub with a menace to society, yes."

"That's the best news I've heard all week." He settled back against the edge of the tub, stretching his arms along the rim, looking like a king surveying his domain. "Alright. We've got options."

"Options?"

"Option one: I look for the top. I find it. I hand it to you. You put it on. The magic ends. We go back to being normal friends who wear clothes in hot tubs."

"I vote option one."

"Option two," JJ continued, ignoring her, "I don't look for the top. We stay here. Maybe I order a pizza. We make a night of it. You get out of the tub in a towel. I die happy."

Yn-- pinched the bridge of her nose. "Those are not options. That's one option and a hostage situation."

"Hostage situation is a strong word. I prefer 'staying put for the aesthetic.'"

"JJ."

"Yn--."

"Find the top."

He sighed—a long, dramatic sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "Fine. Fiiiiine. But you're gonna owe me for this."

"Owe you? It's your hot tub that ate my bikini!"

"My hot tub is innocent," JJ said, holding up a hand solemnly. "It's a neutral party. It was just doing its job—providing a warm, relaxing environment. It didn't ask for your strings to betray you."

"My strings didn't betray me! They were old! This bikini is ancient!"

"Now you're blaming the victim," JJ said with a disappointed click of his tongue. "Classic. Very classy, Yn--."

She splashed him again. He laughed, throwing his head back, and for a split second, the tension broke. It wasn't even about the top anymore. It was just them—two idiots in a broken hot tub on a summer night, one of them completely unbothered by his friend's nudity, the other desperately trying not to laugh.

But then he made a move, and she forgot to breathe.

He pushed off from his side of the tub and started wading toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, a predator in board shorts. The water sloshed around his chest as he got closer, and Yn-- instinctively pressed her back against the tub wall, her arms crossing protectively over her chest.

"Easy," he said, his voice dropping to something softer, more amused. "I'm just looking. Remember?"

"JJ, don't you dare—"

He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. His blue eyes were bright, lit up with a mischief that was pure, undiluted chaos.

"Relax, Yn--. I'm a gentleman."

"You once stole a golf cart and drove it into a Kook's pool."

"That was a social experiment," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "And for the record, the golf cart was fine. Mostly. The pool wasn't, but that's not the point."

"The point is you're not a gentleman."

"The point," JJ said, leaning in just a fraction, "is that I'm not gonna look if you don't want me to. I'm a lot of things—a menace, a nuisance, a low-level felon—but I'm not a creep."

Yn-- stared at him. For once, he was serious. The grin was still there, but it had softened into something real, something that made her stomach flip.

"Then what are you doing?" she asked, her voice coming out smaller than she'd intended.

He tilted his head, considering her. "I'm enjoying myself. You know how rare it is for something good to just... happen? No plan, no scheming, no universe conspiring against me?" He glanced down at the water, then back up at her. "This is a gift, Yn--. A weird, slightly awkward, very poorly timed gift. I'm not gonna waste it by acting like it's a big deal."

"It is a big deal. I'm—" she gestured vaguely at herself, "—I'm naked. In a hot tub. With you."

"And?" JJ shrugged. "It's just a body. Everybody's got one. Some of them are cooler than others. Some of them have—" he made a vague gesture near his own chest, "—you know. Features. But at the end of the day, it's just skin. I'm not gonna freak out about it."

"You're not gonna freak out about it," she repeated flatly. "You literally just said you were 'thriving' and called it a 'once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.'"

"I said opportunity, not disaster. There's a difference. Opportunity means I'm enjoying the surprise. Disaster means you're crying and I'm apologizing. Different vibes."

Yn-- wanted to be annoyed. She really did. But the way he was looking at her—not like a piece of meat, but like a puzzle he was having a lot of fun solving—made her chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with the water temperature.

"You're impossible," she muttered.

"Impossible to ignore, you mean." He grinned, the mischief flooding back. "Now. About that top."

"What about it?"

"I could try to find it. But I gotta warn you—my hands are gonna be all over the bottom of this tub. I'm gonna be poking around. Feeling things. It's gonna be a whole thing."

"Feeling—" She sputtered. "You mean feeling for the top, right?"

"Sure," JJ said innocently. "What else would I be feeling?"

"I hate you."

"You keep saying that, and yet you haven't gotten out of the tub."

"Because I'm naked, JJ!"

"Fair point." He waggled his eyebrows. "Alright. I'll do the noble thing. I'll search. But I want compensation."

"Compensation?"

"Yeah. I find the top, you buy me a pizza. And not that cheap stuff from the gas station. I'm talking full-on, hand-tossed, extra cheese, pepperoni situation. The works."

Yn-- stared at him. "You're blackmailing me for pizza."

"I'm negotiating for pizza. There's a difference."

"You're the worst."

"And yet, you keep hanging around. Must be my charming personality." He gave a little bow, then dropped his gaze to the water, squinting into the murky depths. "Alright. Here goes nothing."

He reached down, his hand disappearing into the water, and Yn-- felt her breath catch. He was inches away from her, his shoulder brushing her knee as he leaned forward. The jets were still churning, making it impossible to see what he was doing.

"Oh, I feel something," he said, his voice muffled by the water. "And it's... warm. And... stringy."

"That's probably my—"

"Wait, no. That's a leaf." He surfaced, holding up a soggy brown leaf between two fingers. "Gross. This tub is a biohazard."

"JJ. Focus."

"I'm focusing! I'm searching! You don't rush a treasure hunt, Yn--. That's how you miss the good stuff." He ducked under again, his hand sweeping across the bottom. She felt his fingers brush her ankle, and she yelped.

"Did you just touch my foot?"

"Accident," came his muffled voice from under the water. "Maybe. Could've been on purpose. I'll never tell."

She kicked out, splashing him, and he surfaced with a sputter, water streaming down his face. His hair was a wreck, plastered to his forehead in chaotic waves, and his grin was so wide it was almost cartoonish.

"You're a menace," she said.

"You've mentioned that."

"You're the reason I can't have nice things."

"The only nice thing you had was that bikini, and it gave up on you, Yn--. That's not my fault. That's bad craftsmanship. You need to shop at better stores."

"I got it at a thrift shop."

"Ah." JJ nodded sagely. "The thrift shop. Where dreams go to die and bikinis go to betray their owners. Makes sense."

Yn-- laughed despite herself. She couldn't help it. There was something infectious about his energy, something that made even the most mortifying situations feel like an adventure. Here she was, topless in a broken hot tub, and she was laughing.

"Alright," JJ said, rubbing his hands together. "One more try. If I don't find it this time, we're gonna have to come up with a new plan."

"What kind of plan?"

"I'm thinking towels. Maybe a dramatic exit. I'll carry you out of the tub like a damsel in distress. You'll be wrapped in a towel, I'll be the hero, and we'll never speak of this again."

"You'd enjoy that way too much."

"Probably." He grinned. "But you'd enjoy it too. You love being carried. You've got that princess energy."

"I do not have princess energy."

"Babe, you literally demanded I find your bikini top like I'm your royal subject. That's princess energy."

"That's common decency energy!"

JJ just laughed and dove under again, his hands sweeping across the bottom. This time, she felt his fingers graze her thigh, and she jerked back with a shriek.

"JJ!"

"I'm looking!" His voice was a little too gleeful.

"You're just feeling me up!"

"I'm feeling for the top," he said, surfacing with a scandalized expression. "How dare you accuse me of such impropriety. I'm a gentleman. I told you."

"You are not a gentleman."

"I'm a gentleman adjacent. I'm in the neighborhood of gentleman. I can see gentleman from my house."

Yn-- grabbed a handful of water and threw it at his face. He took it like a champ, shaking his head like a dog and blinking water out of his eyes.

"Okay," he said, wiping his face. "I'm starting to think this top is a lost cause. It might've gotten sucked into the jet. Or it's dissolved. Or it's in another dimension."

"JJ."

"I'm serious! That thing is gone, Yn--. It's gone, and you're gonna have to accept that. We're gonna have to adapt. Evolve. Move on."

"Move on," she repeated flatly. "You want me to move on from my bikini top. The thing that is currently covering absolutely nothing."

"Look at the bright side," JJ said, gesturing with both hands. "You've got a great story. 'That time my bikini betrayed me in JJ's hot tub and he was absolutely no help.' It's a classic. You could tell it at parties."

"I'm not telling anyone this story."

"You will. Trust me. It'll be your go-to icebreaker. 'Hi, I'm Yn--, and I once flashed a guy in a hot tub.' People will love it."

"I hate you."

"Your hatred is noted and will be ignored." He settled back against the edge of the tub, crossing his arms behind his head like he was on a tropical vacation. "Okay. New plan. We wait."

"We wait for what?"

"For the top to resurface. It's buoyant, right? It's got to float eventually."

Yn-- looked at him with an expression of pure disbelief. "You want me to sit here, in this hot tub, naked, waiting for a tiny piece of red fabric to float up out of the depths."

"Exactly," JJ said, nodding encouragingly. "Patience, Yn--. It's a virtue."

"It's not a virtue, it's a trap."

"A trap that involves you staying in a hot tub with me. How is that a trap? That's a gift."

She wanted to argue. She really did. But the absurdity of the situation had fully settled in, and she was tired of being embarrassed. It was JJ. He'd seen her at her worst—covered in marsh mud, screaming at a Kook from a moving boat, sobbing over a failed test. This was just another notch on the weirdness belt.

So she leaned back against the tub, letting the water lap at her shoulders, and tried to relax.

"You're not going to help me at all, are you?" she asked, her voice resigned.

JJ tilted his head, pretending to think. "Define 'help.'"

"Help like 'looking for the top.'"

"Pass."

"Help like 'offering me a towel.'"

"Also pass."

"Help like 'not staring at my chest.'"

JJ considered this. "I don't think that's in my skill set. I'm gonna be honest with you, Yn--. I'm a visual learner. I need to see things to understand them. It's a medical condition."

"You are impossible."

"Impossibly charming?"

"Impossibly infuriating."

"Same thing, really." He grinned at her, that stupid, crooked grin that made her stomach do flips. "You know, for someone who's currently topless in a hot tub, you're handling this remarkably well. Most people would be screaming or crying or making a scene."

"Most people have dignity."

"And you?" JJ asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I've been hanging around you too long. My dignity got lost somewhere in a marsh two years ago."

"I'm honored," he said, pressing a hand to his chest. "I've been a bad influence. That's goals, honestly. That's the legacy I want to leave behind."

"Your legacy is going to be 'he annoyed everyone to death.'"

"Better than being boring," JJ said with a shrug. "I'll take it."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the churning jets and the distant chirp of crickets. Yn-- had stopped trying to cover herself—it was pointless in the murky water anyway—and JJ had stopped actively staring, which was progress. The tension had shifted from mortifying to something almost... natural.

And then, because the universe had a sense of humor, the top floated up between them.

It rose out of the churning water like some kind of mythical creature, a soggy scrap of red fabric that had clearly been through a war. It bobbed gently on the surface, strings trailing behind it like a sad little jellyfish.

Yn-- stared at it.

JJ stared at it.

Then, in perfect synchronization, they both looked at each other.

"Would you look at that," JJ said, his voice dripping with false surprise. "It resurfaced. Must be my lucky day."

"JJ," Yn-- said, her voice flat. "Give. Me. The top."

He reached out and grabbed it, holding it up by one string like it was a captured flag. The soggy fabric dripped water onto his face, and he didn't even seem to notice.

"You know," he said, turning it over in his hands, "I've got to say, this is a lot less impressive wet. It was doing some heavy lifting earlier, but now? It's just... sad."

"JJ."

"I'm just saying! It's like seeing a magician's trick revealed. The illusion is shattered. The mystery is gone. This flimsy piece of fabric was holding all the power, and now it's just... wet."

"Give. Me. The top."

He looked at her, his eyes dancing. "Okay, fine. But I want something first."

"What?"

"A thank you."

"A thank you? For what? You didn't do anything!"

"I provided moral support," JJ said, holding the top just out of her reach. "I was your emotional anchor in a time of crisis. I kept you calm. I made you laugh. I deserve a thank you."

Yn-- stared at him. "You just want to watch me squirm."

"I want a little gratitude," he corrected. "There's a difference. Squirming is a bonus."

She took a deep breath, counted to three in her head, and then said, through gritted teeth, "Thank you. For absolutely nothing."

JJ beamed. "You're welcome! I accept this praise in the spirit in which it was given."

"Now give me the top."

He held it out to her, and she snatched it from his grasp. The fabric was cold and wet and completely useless, but she clutched it to her chest like a lifeline.

"Turn around," she ordered.

JJ raised an eyebrow. "Babe, I've been looking at you for the last twenty minutes. What's one more second?"

"Turn around or I will drown you."

"Fine, fine." He put his hands up in surrender and turned his back to her, but she could hear the laughter in his voice. "Don't take too long. The view back here is terrible."

She fumbled with the strings, trying to tie them behind her neck. The knot was slippery, the strings were too short, and her fingers were trembling with a mix of exasperation and something she didn't want to name.

"Need help?" JJ asked, not turning around.

"I'd rather die."

"Suit yourself. But the offer stands. I'm very good with knots. I can tie a mean bowline. A hitch. A—"

"JJ, shut up."

"Just saying. I've got skills."

She finally managed to tie the top—badly, but it would hold—and took a deep breath. "Okay. You can turn around."

He turned, and his face fell into an exaggerated pout. "Aww. It's back. Boo."

"Stop being a child."

"Never." He waded closer to her, and she instinctively backed up against the tub wall. He was in her space now, close enough that she could smell the salt and chlorine on his skin, close enough that she could see the little flecks of green in his blue eyes.

"Thanks for not making it weird," he said, his voice softer.

"You made it incredibly weird."

"Yeah, but not bad weird," he said. "Fun weird. Weird weird. The best kind of weird."

She shook her head, but she was smiling. "You're lucky I like you."

He grinned. "I know. I'm the luckiest guy in the Cut."

Then, before she could say anything else, he reached down and scooped her up out of the water. She yelped, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance as water streamed off both of them.

"What are you doing?!"

"Princess energy, remember?" He was grinning that stupid grin, water dripping from his hair onto her face. "I told you I was gonna carry you out. I'm a man of my word."

"JJ, put me down!"

"Nope. This is happening." He started walking toward the edge of the tub, his grip firm around her legs. "You're gonna be wrapped in a towel, I'm gonna be a hero, and we're never gonna speak of this again."

"You just said you were never gonna let me forget this!"

"New plan," JJ said cheerfully. "I'm gonna remind you every single day. For the rest of your life."

Polaroid Memories:

You and JJ are going through baby pictures of your son, Phoenix and JJ happens to find some totally embarrassing ones that he finds adorable, while Phoenix finds completely mortifying.

The rainy afternoon had turned the beach cottage into a cozy fortress of nostalgia. The smell of old paper and dusty plastic sleeves filled the air as you and JJ sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by a mountain of disorganized photo albums and loose Polaroids.

Phoenix, who was currently eight going on eighteen, sat between you both with his arms crossed, eyeing the boxes like they contained radioactive material.

"I don't see why we have to do this," Phoenix muttered, his blonde hair—a direct carbon copy of JJ’s—falling over his eyes. "I remember being a baby. It was fine. Can I go play Minecraft now?"

"Not a chance, kid," JJ chirped, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous kind of mischief. He was wearing his favorite worn-out hoodie, and he looked more excited than he did on Christmas morning. "We’re documenting the legend. The origin story of the Pogue Prince."

JJ dove into a shoebox and pulled out a stack of Polaroids. He froze, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Oh. Oh, Yn. Look at this one. This is a classic."

He slid a photo across the rug. It was a shot of Phoenix at maybe five months old, lying sprawled out on this very same rug, completely diaperless. He was mid-giggle, his chubby legs kicked up in the air, looking like a very happy, very naked little starfish.

Across the thick white bottom of the Polaroid, in JJ’s loopy, slightly messy handwriting, it read: "Free as the Wind (and Twice as Breezy) — P’s First Streaking Incident."

"Dad! No!" Phoenix shrieked, lunging for the photo. "Delete it! Burn it! Send it to space!"

"It’s a physical photo, Nix, I can't delete it," JJ laughed, holding it high above his head out of reach. "Besides, look at those rolls! You were like a little sourdough loaf. I used to think I could just put you in a basket and sell you at the farmer's market."

"You look adorable, Phoenix," you added, biting your lip to keep from laughing at your son’s horrified expression.

"I look like a potato!" Phoenix groaned, burying his face in his hands.

JJ was already on to the next one. This one was a close-up. It was a shot of JJ, looking younger and slightly more sleep-deprived, absolutely burying his face into a toddler-aged Phoenix’s cheek. Phoenix was squinting, his face squished to one side under the pressure of the "Dad-attack."

The tagline on this one read: "The Maybank Super-Glue Bond — Warning: Highly Adhesive."

"See?" JJ pointed at the writing. "I told you since the day you were born, kid. You’re stuck with the affection. It’s a lifelong contract. No opt-out clause."

"You’re squishing my brain in that one," Phoenix complained, though he was starting to lean in closer to see the rest.

JJ pulled out a third one—the pièce de résistance. It was a picture of Phoenix around age two, wearing one of JJ’s oversized trucker hats that fell down past his nose. He had a giant smear of chocolate pudding across his forehead and was sticking his tongue out at the camera.

The caption read: "Future World Leader (Or Professional Beach Bum) — 90% Pudding, 10% Chaos."

"I remember that day," JJ whispered, his voice softening just a fraction as he looked at the grainy image. He nudged Phoenix with his shoulder. "You tried to feed the pudding to the dog, and when I told you no, you just looked me dead in the eye and wiped it on your own head. I knew right then... you were a Pogue through and through."

Phoenix looked at the photo, his mortification finally giving way to a small, reluctant smile. "I really liked pudding."

"You still do, buddy," you said, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

JJ gathered the Polaroids into a neat pile, his thumb lingering on the one of the "Super-Glue" kiss. He looked at Phoenix, his expression turning into that trademark mix of charming and fiercely protective.

"You might be eight now, and you might think you’re too cool for the 'naked rug' phase," JJ said, pulling Phoenix into a one-armed headlock and planting a loud, obnoxious kiss right on the crown of his head. "But to me? You’re always gonna be the kid with the pudding forehead. And I’m always gonna be the guy writing the taglines."

Phoenix feigned a struggle, but he didn't pull away. "Fine. But if you show these to my friends, I’m telling Mom about the time you accidentally dropped your phone in the crab trap."