JJ

The heat was sticky and heavy. The air at Devil's Wharf shimmered with the sun, the boats bobbed lazily on the waves. Sarah tugged you by the hand through the courtyard, where her friends were already sitting. John B was talking, Kiara was rolling her eyes, Pope was laughing. And him. JJ. He was sitting on the hood of an old van, swinging a bottle of beer in his hand, his blond hair tousled by the wind, his tanned skin glistening in the sun. He looked up lazily—and froze. Sarah smiled.

"Guys, this is my sister ." And before you could even open your mouth, JJ quietly said your name. Too confidently. Too familiar. Everyone looked at each other.

"Do you know each other? " Sarah asked in surprise.

"No, " you answered calmly. JJ gave a wry smile and turned his head away, as if he was amused. But you saw his jaw clench. He remembered. You both remembered.

The night of the Sharks and the Live Away party. The music was blaring so loud the floor shook. Someone splashed rum into plastic cups, and you laughed louder than usual. He stood too close. You said something brazen. He responded even more brazenly. The kiss was harsh, uneven, more like a collision. His hand gripped your waist, your fingers gripped his T-shirt. The taste of alcohol, stubbornness, a flash—too fast to be a simple mistake.

Now he looked at you differently—not as "Sarah's sister." Not as someone's relative. But as a problem. A dangerous one. Because you're also Rafe's sister. And Rafe will kill any "bait" that comes close. JJ jumped off the hood and came closer. Not too close. But close enough.

“So, you don’t know each other?” he said quietly, so only you could hear. There was mockery in his eyes. And a challenge. His fingers tightened slightly—as if he could still feel that kiss. And now it wasn’t just awkward. It was dangerous. Because in this company you can’t play both sides. And you’ve already started

You said something bold. He responded even more boldly. The kiss was harsh, uneven, more like a collision. His hand gripped your waist, your fingers gripped his T-shirt. The taste of alcohol, stubbornness, a flash—too quick to be a simple mistake.