Archive of Our Own ^beta

One second, Shoupe is telling Ward not to do this, to come back, to leave the boat. He disappears into the Druthers anyway, leaving only suspense in his wake.

Fire erupts across the water. The sound hits a half second later, a deep-throated boom that shakes the dock under their feet.

Someone screams.

And Sarah drops.

She crumples to her knees like the air’s been punched out of her lungs, a choked sob ripping out of her throat. The dock is chaos—people yelling, the cops scrambling, John B frozen in place like he’s trying to make sense of it.

But JJ moves.

He doesn’t think. Just goes to her.

“Sarah,” he says, falling to his knees beside her. “Hey—hey. Look at me.”

She’s shaking, breath coming in panicked gasps, both hands clutched over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, locked on the flames licking the sky in the distance. She doesn’t even seem to hear him.

JJ cups her face, firm but gentle. “Sarah. Sarah. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

That’s what does it. Her eyes snap to his.

Then she folds into him with a broken sound that tears him in half.

He catches her easily. Wraps his arms around her as she sobs into his neck, the kind of crying that doesn’t have words. The kind you only do when it’s too late.

She keeps saying “no” over and over again. Like she can rewind it if she just begs hard enough.

“I know,” JJ whispers. “I know. I’ve got you.”

John B’s still ten feet away. Watching. Not moving.

JJ sees him. Doesn’t care.

Because Sarah’s clinging to him like she might drown, and JJ—JJ knows exactly what this feels like. Not losing someone good. Losing someone complicated. Someone who hurt you, lied to you, made your life a war zone—and then vanished before you got a chance to make peace with any of it.

His dad might still be alive, but he’s been mourning him for years.

So he just holds her.

Lets her shake. Lets her scream. Runs a hand through her hair and rests his cheek against the top of her head and breathes in slow.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And maybe it’s the first time someone’s ever meant it.

It’s almost midnight when he hears the knock.

JJ’s lying on his bed, one arm thrown over his face, a half-empty beer sweating on the floor beside him. The house is quiet for once—Luke’s off doing God knows what, and JJ’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

The knock comes again. Soft. Hesitant. Two quick taps.

He rolls off the bed, shirtless, barefoot, vaguely annoyed. Probably Pope or John B with some new plan that’ll get them arrested.

But when he opens the door—it’s her.

Sarah Cameron. Hair wet like she ran through sprinklers. Hoodie zipped up to her throat. Eyes bloodshot. Lips trembling like she hasn’t spoken in hours.

JJ’s stomach flips.

“Hey,” she says, voice hoarse.

He blinks. “You lost?”

She lets out a breath that’s not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

“No.”

She walks past him like she belongs there.

Like she’s been here a hundred times before.

JJ shuts the door behind her, heart hammering like a trapdoor in a hurricane.

“Shouldn’t you be at Tannyhill?” he asks.

Sarah shrugs, pulling her hood down. “I was.”

He waits.

She doesn’t elaborate.

Instead, she perches on the edge of his bed, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeves. Her knee bounces. She looks like she’s trying to hold herself together with chewing gum and sheer will.

“I couldn’t breathe in there,” she says finally. “My family’s acting too weird. Rafe’s high as hell, Rose poured a glass of wine before the flames even went out, and Wheezie—fuck, Wheezie just won’t stop crying.”

JJ doesn’t laugh. Not even a little.

Sarah looks up. Her eyes meet his. Raw. Red. Devastated.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

JJ exhales slowly.

He crosses the room, sits beside her. Leaves space. But not much.

“You could’ve gone to John B,” he says carefully.

Sarah shakes her head. “He hated him.”

JJ’s silent for a beat. “So did you.”

“Not like that,” she whispers.

She starts crying again. Not the violent kind like earlier. This time it’s worse.

Silent. Shaky. Her whole body curling in on itself like the grief is peeling her apart from the inside.

JJ doesn’t ask. He just pulls her in.

Her head rests on his shoulder. His hand finds her back. And they stay like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says into his shirt. “He was a monster. But he was still my dad.”

JJ closes his eyes.

“You don’t have to explain,” he murmurs. “I get it.”

And she believes him.

Because he’s the only one who ever could.

JJ’s not sure how long they sit like that.

Long enough for her to stop shaking. Long enough for his shirt to soak through with tears. Long enough for the guilt to creep in—because holding her like this feels too good, and it shouldn’t.

She pulls back slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. Her eyes are tired. Raw. But focused. On him.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “For not making me talk.”

JJ shrugs, tries to play it off. “It’s what I do best.”

She smiles. Barely. But it’s there. And it wrecks him.

Then her hand moves.

She touches his face, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw like she’s not sure she’s allowed. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches her, every nerve lit up like a wire about to snap.

“Sarah…” he says, voice low.

Her eyes flick to his lips.

“Don’t,” he warns.

But she leans in anyway.

Her mouth touches his—tentative, barely there. A question he doesn’t want to answer. His hands tighten into fists at his sides. He kisses her back before he can stop himself.

It’s soft. Just for a second.

And then it’s not.

He pulls away first. Breath ragged.

“Sarah, no. Not like this.”

Her brow furrows. “Why not?”

“You’re upset,” he says. “You’re grieving. And I’m not—I’m not gonna be the guy who takes advantage of that.”

She looks at him like he just doesn’t get it.

“I came here because I’m upset,” she says. “I came here because you’re the only person who understands what this feels like.”

“Sarah—”

“John B wouldn’t get it,” she says, voice cracking. “He hated my dad. He’d expect me to be relieved. To be grateful. Like I didn’t spend my whole life twisting myself into knots just to make Ward love me back.”

JJ closes his eyes. His jaw flexes.

She leans in again. This time slower. Closer.

“I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now,” she whispers. “Please.”

And that’s what breaks him.

He kisses her like it hurts. Like the only way to survive the night is to lose himself in the wreckage of her. His hands tangle in her hair, hers clutch at his shoulders, and neither of them are gentle.

This isn’t soft.

This is desperate.

When they break apart, her breath is hot against his cheek. Her forehead pressed to his.

“Stay,” he says, and he doesn’t mean just tonight.

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t leave.

The second kiss is harder.

Rougher.

There’s no more hesitation, no more pretending this is about anything other than what they need—right now, right here. JJ pulls her closer like she’s oxygen. Sarah tugs at his shirt like she’ll fall apart if she doesn’t have more.

They don’t talk.

Talking would ruin it.

His room is dark, cluttered, small. There’s an old fan rattling in the corner and a rip in the screen door that lets in the sound of crickets and salt wind. It’s not romantic. It’s not sweet.

But it’s real.

Sarah’s shirt hits the floor first. JJ’s hands tremble a little as he reaches for her, like some part of him still thinks she might disappear.

She doesn’t.

She kisses him like she’s starving.

They fall back on the bed in a tangle of limbs and breath and bruised hearts. JJ pauses once—just once—with his forehead pressed to hers, their chests rising and falling in sync.

“We don’t have to,” he says, voice wrecked.

Sarah looks at him. Eyes open, honest, hurting.

“I want to.”

So he lets himself have her.

It’s not slow. It’s not careful.

It’s frantic. Unguarded. Two people trying to claw their way out of their own minds, using each other to stay afloat. Her nails scratch down his back. His lips find her throat. She gasps his name like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

And when it’s over, they’re both quiet.

Breathing hard. Twisting the sheets in their fists.

JJ stares at the ceiling like it might swallow him whole. Sarah lies next to him, eyes open, blinking back whatever comes next.

Neither of them says a word.

Because what the hell can you say after that?

JJ wakes up first.

The room is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels too fragile to move through. He blinks against the thin morning light bleeding in through the torn blinds, muscles sore, mouth dry, brain foggy in that post-chaos calm.

Sarah’s still curled into his chest. One leg hooked over his. Her hair is a mess, her face soft in sleep. There’s a smudge of last night’s mascara on his shoulder, like proof it wasn’t a dream.

He should move.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he brushes his thumb along her spine. Light. Thoughtless. Familiar in a way that terrifies him.

She stirs a little, sighs.

And then—without opening her eyes—she whispers, “Morning.”

“Hey,” he says, voice rough.

They stay like that for a beat. Wrapped up in each other. Wrapped up in everything they’re not saying.

Sarah eventually shifts, chin propped on his chest as she looks up at him. Her eyes are clearer now. Still red, still heavy. But calm.

JJ gives her a half-smile.

“We probably shouldn’t do that again.”

She snorts softly. “No. Definitely not.”

Another pause.

Sarah pulls the sheet tighter around herself as she sits up, suddenly aware of how small the room is. How intimate. How real it all feels now.

JJ watches her. Not like he’s undressing her—more like he’s memorizing her. Like he doesn’t know when he’ll get to look at her like this again.

“You okay?” he asks, tone low.

Sarah nods. “I think so. Are you?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I’m still me. So… jury’s out.”

That gets a smile out of her. A real one.

She leans over, presses a kiss to his shoulder. Not sexual. Not needy. Just soft.

“Thanks,” she says.

“For what?”

“For being the only one who didn’t tell me how to feel.”

JJ swallows.

“You don’t have to thank me for that. I just… I knew what it looked like.”

Sarah’s eyes flick to his.

“Because of your dad?”

JJ nods. “Because of a lot of shit.”

They get dressed slowly, not looking at each other too much. Everything feels delicate. Not awkward exactly, but exposed. Like some part of them is still tangled in last night.

At the door, Sarah hesitates.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” she says.

“Me neither.”

“We should be careful.”

JJ nods. “Right. No repeats.”

She turns to go.

Stops.

Looks over her shoulder with a crooked, tired smile.

“But if I show up again…”

“I won’t ask questions,” he says.

And he means it.

It smells like rust and salt and regret.

They’re out of the container and into the belly of the beast. JJ’s heart is pounding so hard it’s making his teeth ache. He’s got a wrench in one hand and a plan that’s barely a whisper.

Then he sees her.

Sarah.

Struggling against her dad’s grip on the deck. Ward’s eyes are wild. JJ doesn’t hear the words—they don’t matter.

The deck is hell.

Everyone’s yelling. The crew’s turning. Cleo’s holding it down like a badass and Pope’s trying to get the cross and the boat captain comes out of nowhere with a damn machete.

JJ turns just in time to see the hilt coming.

It slams into his temple with a sickening crack.

His knees buckle. The sky spins.

The last thing he hears is Sarah screaming his name.

Then nothing.

Salt. Pain. Shouting.

JJ gasps awake like he’s drowning—because he was.

His head is pounding. His body’s soaked. He tries to sit up and immediately regrets it.

“Don’t move—don’t, don’t—JJ, just—please—” Kiara’s voice is shaking. She’s holding his face, tears mixing with saltwater on her cheeks.

He blinks up at her. “Kie?”

“You almost died, dumbass,” she chokes. “I thought we lost you.”

He swallows, throat raw. She’s still holding onto him like she might break in half if she lets go.

He thinks about Sarah. The way she looked on the ship. The way her voice cracked when she screamed for him.

Then he thinks about Kiara. The way she’s always been there. The way she’s here now.

He doesn’t know what he feels.

He just knows it’s a lot.

“I hereby declare this land Poguelandia,” he says, perched atop the palm tree, voice hoarse but loud. “Home of degenerates, pirates, and people who don’t pay taxes.”

Sarah laughs—really laughs—for the first time since the ship.

Kiara rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, too. JJ catches her watching him and his heart does something annoying.

It’s hot. JJ’s shirt is off. The water’s clear enough to see his shadow under the surface.

He and Kiara go out with makeshift spears and challenge each other to “most kills before sunset.”

She wins. Obviously.

But he lets her.

(Not that he’d ever admit it.)

They wade back to shore, soaked and breathless. JJ throws his head back and shouts, “THIS IS WHAT MEN WERE MADE FOR!” like an idiot.

Kiara splashes him in the face.

He pretends to drown.

She pretends not to care.

They’re both lying.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s JJ.

The cliff is insanely high, jagged, with a crystal blue drop on the other side.

“Don’t do it,” Pope warns quietly from the ground, pointlessly. “Seriously, man, your brain’s already half jelly.”

“That’s a generous estimate,” Kiara mutters.

But JJ grins, takes a few running steps, and jumps.

His scream echoes. Then a splash. Then silence.

For a heartbeat, everyone holds their breath.

Then JJ surfaces, both middle fingers raised, hair slicked back, whooping.

Sarah claps with a laugh that’s all smiles. Kiara shakes her head and says something low, under her breath, about an idiot she might actually miss if he ever stops pulling this shit.

Later that night, when the fire’s dying and the stars are too loud, Sarah sits beside JJ again. They don’t talk. Her hand slips into his like it belongs there.

JJ looks down at their hands.

Then up at Kiara.

And for once—he doesn’t know who he’s reaching for.

It’s almost too good to be true.

Jimmy Portis shows up like a cartoon come to life—aviator shades, long hair in a ponytail, striped shirt not buttoned up all the way. The plane looks like it was built with duct tape and desperation.

But it flies.

And for a while, everything feels almost okay.

Then the engine sputters.

And the next thing he knows, they’re crashing.

The ocean slams into them like a punch.

JJ goes under, disoriented, swallowing salt. When he surfaces, coughing and flailing, he hears Sarah yelling, Cleo swearing, Pope calling names.

But no Kiara.

“Kie?!”

He spins, eyes wild. The water’s slick with fuel and foam.

JJ’s voice cracks. “Kie?! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

Someone grabs his arm, shushes him. Cleo, maybe. He jerks free.

He doesn’t care who sees him panicking.

He watches them drag her off the dock, and his heart jumps into his throat.

It’s hours. Or days. Or years.

Of chasing down Jimmy, the showdown with Singh’s men, narrowly escaping their own capture.

And still no Kiara.

JJ’s eyes are bloodshot. His hands won’t stop shaking.

Sarah finds his shoulder on the dock, hunched over, fists clenched like he’s holding himself together by force.

“She’ll come back,” she whispers, touching his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust his voice.

All he can think about is Kiara’s laugh. Her hands in the water beside his. Her smirk after she beat him at spearfishing. Her “don’t fuck with me” attitude, all teeth and heat.

And how he never got to tell her—

JJ turns, blinking at the dock, heart caught somewhere between his stomach and his ribcage, the message reverberating in his mind.

Meet me at the pin at 6:15. P4L

He can’t help it anymore. He has to move.

The gun cocks, and slides into the back of his shorts. He vaguely hears Sarah behind him—

“No, JJ—JJ—“

Then he sees her.

Kiara. On the bow of a sleek boat, hair windblown, alive.

She jumps before the thing even docks properly. Hits the ground running. Barefoot, in a silky two piece sleep set. Something Kiara would never wear on her own accord.

He’s stuck to the ground like his feet were glued to it. His mouth parts in shock, brain not catching up, everything moving in slow motion.

She crashes into him like a wave, arms around his neck, laughing through tears. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again—JJ, I thought—I thought—”

He doesn’t let go. Just wraps his arms around her tighter. Pushes his face into her neck. She smells different and the same all at once, and JJ chokes back a sob.

And for a second, it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Later, when it’s quiet again—when the hugs fade into silence and everyone’s accounted for—Sarah finds him sitting alone.

She sits beside him, close but not touching.

“You really thought you lost her,” she says.

JJ doesn’t look at her.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Sarah nods. “You love her.”

He swallows.

“I don’t know what I feel,” he says honestly. “But I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

Sarah takes a breath, lets it out slow. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he echoes.

She nods. Doesn’t look at him. “You’re not the only one confused.”

He turns his head, watching her now.

“I love John B,” she says quietly. “I do. He saved me. He’s… safe.” A pause. “But ever since the Druthers exploded, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

JJ laughs under his breath. Bitter and soft. “Funny. I’ve never made anyone feel safe in my life.”

Sarah finally looks at him. “You did that night. When Ward… when I broke. You didn’t say the right thing. You just stayed.”

JJ shrugs. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

“That’s the thing,” she says, voice cracking. “You didn’t do. You just were. And I think part of me has been reaching for that ever since.”

He looks down. Chews his thumbnail.

“And now Kie’s back,” he says. “And it’s like I’m holding two live wires. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without burning someone.”

Sarah laughs—sad, tired. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”

They sit in silence.

Then JJ says, almost too soft to hear, “I think we missed our shot.”

Sarah nods slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.”

He glances at her. “What do we do now?”

She sighs. “Same thing we always do.”

“Which is?”

“Pretend none of it happened… until it does again.”

The ocean is calm.

Cleo’s curled up with a blanket and Pope, who’s snoring softly against her shoulder. John B is slouched in the captain’s chair, hat pulled low over his face like he’s still pretending to steer this ship—literally and otherwise.

Kiara sits a few feet away, arms crossed, chin tucked to her chest like she’s watching the horizon—but every so often, her eyes flick over to John B.

Just for a second.

And then away again.

Like she hasn’t quite decided if she’s still mad at him for everything they went through together... or if she just missed him.

And JJ?

JJ’s outside. Feet kicked up on the railing. Hoodie pulled over his head.

He’d been pacing the deck like a caged animal earlier, eyes fixed on the water like he could outrun the waves if he just moved fast enough.

He doesn’t even notice Sarah until she sits beside him.

She doesn’t speak.

Just leans into the rail, arms crossed, hair still wind-tangled.

The moonlight catches her eyes when she finally says, “I thought you were going to jump overboard back there.”

JJ snorts. “Honestly? I thought I was too.”

Silence.

The boat rocks gently.

Sarah folds her hands over her belly like a nervous habit. “I meant what I said earlier.”

JJ turns toward her, slowly.

“When I said you didn’t try to fix it. You just stayed.”

He’s quiet. Processing.

Sarah adds, “No one ever really did that for me.”

JJ’s voice is raw. “No one ever really did that for me either.”

Another beat of silence.

They sit like that for a long time.

No promises. No explanations. No pretending.

Just two people—

heart-wrecked, soul-sore,

held together by the rocking of the boat

and the grief they haven’t named yet.

Sarah shifts closer without asking. JJ doesn’t move away.

She lets her head fall back on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

“I could fall asleep like this,” she murmurs.

JJ hums, barely audible. “Then do.”

And she does.

Five minutes later, so does he.

The ocean rocks them gently.

The rest of the world stays quiet.

And for now—just for now—

everything holds.

Everything’s back to normal.

At least, that’s what everyone keeps saying.

The Pogues are home. The weather’s warm. The treasure’s lost again. Rafe’s vanished into his own storm cloud.

They’re supposed to be okay now.

And JJ—JJ’s trying. He really is.

He spends his days fixing up his bike, surfing with John B and Pope, letting Kiara tuck her feet into his lap on the porch swing. She makes fun of his playlists. He lets her. She braids beads into his hair while he sleeps and he pretends not to like it.

It’s good. Easy. Familiar in a way that makes him feel stable.

But Sarah?

Sarah is everywhere.

She laughs too loud when she’s near him. Glances a second too long. And sometimes, when no one’s looking, she bumps his shoulder just to feel him flinch.

And JJ—he flinches. Every time.

There’s one night at the Chateau.

Everyone’s wiped—Kiara and John B are asleep on the pull-out inside, tangled in a blanket. Pope’s half-dozing in a hammock, still holding a beer like it’s a trophy. Cleo is sprawled across the couch with her eyes closed, singing softly to the song coming through the speaker.

Outside, the music plays low. Fireflies blink through the trees.

Sarah’s barefoot in the yard, dancing slowly, lazily—like she’s not trying to impress anyone. Her hair’s a mess. Her sweatshirt is JJ’s. She’s holding a plastic cup of iced tea Kiara made earlier, the cubes half melted.

JJ leans against the porch post, lights a joint, and watches her like he’s trying not to.

Sarah spins once, laughing at something Pope mumbled in his sleep, then catches JJ’s eye.

The air shifts.

She walks toward him, slow.

Her smile is soft.

“You alright?” she asks, close enough that he can feel her body heat through the sweatshirt she stole.

JJ nods, throat tight. “You always act this way or just when I’m trying to behave?”

Sarah grins. Shrugs. “You never behave.”

He opens his mouth to fire back—but she tugs the joint from his hand, takes a long, practiced drag, and exhales smoke between them.

Their fingers brush when she hands it back.

It’s the smallest thing.

But JJ feels it in his fucking spine.

Later, when everyone’s fully asleep and the fire is dying, she finds him again. This time on the back steps, staring at the moon like it’s got answers.

She sits beside him.

Close.

Too close.

They don’t talk.

But her knee presses into his.

And neither of them move.

It’s a few days after, the memory of JJ’s skin against hers still fresh in her mind. Sarah hasn’t seen him all or evening.

The text comes in just after midnight.

you up?

can you come over?

it’s bad

Sarah doesn’t ask questions.

John B is passed out in the hammock, reeking of weed and sea spray. They haven’t talked much lately. He kisses her like a reflex. Holds her hand because it’s habit. Like he’s in his own private world, and she just happens to be there.

So when her phone buzzes again—just one word, please—she grabs her keys.

She almost forgets to put on shoes.

JJ’s front door is unlocked.

Of course it is.

She pushes it open slowly, heart already climbing into her throat. The place smells like cheap liquor, blood, and mildew.

“JJ?” she calls.

No answer.

Then she hears it—a hiss of pain, muffled behind the bathroom door.

She finds him hunched over the sink, shirt off, a split across his eyebrow, knuckles torn open. His ribs are bruised purple and black. There’s dried blood on his temple. A bottle of whiskey sits on the counter beside a ripped-up t-shirt and a half-used roll of gauze.

“Jesus,” she breathes. “What the hell happened?”

JJ glances at her in the mirror.

One eye slightly swollen. A cut on his lip. “Hey, princess.”

She crosses the room in two steps. “Don’t fucking ‘hey princess’ me. Was it Luke?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s answer enough.

“Sit,” she snaps, grabbing the gauze.

He does.

Only because it’s her.

She cleans the cut on his eyebrow first. He winces but doesn’t pull away.

“I thought he was gone,” she says softly.

JJ scoffs. “Wishful thinking.”

Her hands shake.

“Why didn’t you call Kiara?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want her to see me like this.”

Sarah says nothing.

Not because she doesn’t have questions.

But because she knows the answer.

Because she came.

Because she understands more than anyone what it’s like, loving someone who hurts you.

Because they share a fucked up bond:

The abusive push-pull manipulation of their paternal bloodline, leaking out all over them like corroded battery acid.

Leaving caustic burns instead of apologies. And calling it love because it’s the only version they were ever given.

She finishes wrapping his ribs and sits on the floor beside the tub, legs pulled in. JJ leans back against the tile, breathing shallow, arms resting on his knees.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

She nods.

He turns his head toward her, gaze unreadable.

“You and JB good?”

Sarah stares at the floor.

“I don’t know.”

JJ nods once. “Same.”

She looks at him now. Really looks. The cuts. The bruises. The way he still tries to smile through it like it doesn’t hurt.

“You can’t keep living like this,” she whispers.

JJ swallows hard. “Not sure I know any other way.”

Her voice is barely audible. “I hate that I get it.”

Then it happens.

No warning. No planning.

She leans in and kisses him.

It’s soft for half a second—just lips against lips, careful and aching.

And then it’s not.

Then it’s teeth. And copper. And hands in hair. Then she’s climbing into his lap, and he’s gripping her like she’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

They kiss like they did the first time—desperate, bruised, trying to take the pain away with their mouths.

She pulls back just long enough to whisper, “I didn’t think I’d ever get to do that again.”

JJ rests his forehead against hers. Eyes closed. Voice shaking.

“I never stopped thinking about it.”

They’re still on the bathroom floor, tangled in each other’s heat and history. JJ’s hands tremble against her waist, but his mouth is steady—like he’s sure of this, even if he’s never been sure of anything else.

Sarah hesitates.

Her fingers press lightly into his chest, her breath shaky. “JJ…”

He stiffens.

Not because of her. Because he thinks he’s about to be left again.

She sees it happen—the way his jaw clenches, how he won’t meet her eyes.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she says gently. “You’re hurt. You’re—this is a lot.”

He nods once. “It is.”

His voice is quiet. Wrecked.

Then he lifts his gaze to hers. And it’s bare—no deflection, no sarcasm. Just him. Bruised and bleeding and still trying.

“But when I’m with you,” he whispers, “the pain fades. Just for a little while.”

She swallows hard.

He leans in closer, rests his forehead against hers.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever made it stop.”

That’s all it takes.

Sarah kisses him again. Softer this time. Slower.

Like saying I hear you.

Like I’m here.

She helps him stand, one arm around his ribs, and guides him to the bed like it’s sacred ground.

They undress each other like unwrapping bandages. Careful. Gentle. Quiet.

JJ lies back first, letting her settle over him, his hands sliding up the curve of her back. Her skin is warm. Her breath stutters against his throat.

She hesitates, hovering above him.

“You sure?” she whispers.

He nods. “Only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

And when she moves against him—when he gasps her name like it’s the first time he’s spoken—it’s not about lust. Not this time.

It’s about comfort. About trying.

About two broken people finding a rhythm in the wreckage.

Sarah kisses every bruise like she’s rewriting history.

JJ holds her like he’ll never get to again.

And for a while, in that messy little room with its peeling walls and crooked window—

It feels like love.

Even if they can’t say it out loud.

They lie in the dark, tangled up in silence and worn-out sheets. The storm inside them has passed—for now—but something deeper lingers. Quieter. Heavier.

JJ’s arm is beneath Sarah’s neck, his other hand tracing slow circles on her shoulder. She’s tucked into his side like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been this way.

She speaks first.

“My dad used to stand in the doorway when I was little,” she says softly. “Didn’t have to say anything. Just… stood there.Watching. Judging. Like I wasn’t his kid—just something he owned.”

JJ swallows.

Sarah doesn’t stop.

“I’d win a school award or come home with straight A’s, and he’d blink once. Maybe nod. But God forbid I didn’t say what he wanted to hear, or challenged him in some way. That’s when he’d talk. Cold, sharp words. Like knives. He didn’t raise his voice—just lowered it.”

JJ stares at the ceiling.

“Luke didn’t bother with words,” he murmurs. “Didn’t need them. I’d be seven, hiding under the sink, and he’d find me just to drag me out by the collar. My mom left a few years before that. I didn’t blame her. I wanted to leave too.”

Sarah reaches for his hand under the blanket. Twines their fingers.

“I used to think if I was just better—smarter, quieter—he’d love me,” she says.

JJ laughs under his breath. Bitter. “I used to think if I took the hit without crying, maybe he’d stop.”

She turns toward him, presses her forehead to his jaw.

“Do you ever feel like you hate them?” she asks. “And then hate yourself because… you still miss them?”

JJ’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “Every day.”

They lie there, heartbeats syncing.

JJ breaks the silence again. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m already turning into him.”

Sarah pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“You’re not.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got his temper. His blood. What if that’s all it takes?”

“No,” she says, firmer now. “You have his blood, yeah. But not his heart. Not his choices. You choose to love people. You choose to protect them. Luke never did that. Not once.”

JJ blinks fast.

“Sarah—”

“You’re not him,” she says again, softer this time. “You’re good. You’re selfless. You’d burn down the world to save someone you love. That’s not what abusers do.”

JJ lets out a shaky breath.

She brushes her thumb along his cheek. “We’re not gonna be them. We’re gonna break the cycle.”

He nods, voice rough. “Promise?”

She kisses him.

Not because it’s romantic.

Because it’s true.

“I promise.”

She can’t breathe.

She’s standing in the corner of the tiny bathroom at the Chateau, staring at the half-crumpled wrapper from a tampon she never used. The trash is too clean. Too light.

How long has it been?

She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes.

Okay.

Think.

The last time she remembers… the week Ward “died.” The night she fell apart and JJ held her like it would fix something. That night.

That night.

Her stomach flips.

They were in Barbados. Then Poguelandia. No pads. No tampons. No blood.

She chalked it up to stress. The plane crash. The kidnapping. The chase. Being fucking stranded on a desert island like it’s a goddamn movie.

But it’s been weeks since they got back to the OBX.

And nothing.

John B hasn’t touched her since they came home.

Not really. Not like that.

He sleeps beside her like a stranger. Doesn’t kiss her unless someone’s looking. Blames it on his dad—on the ghosts and guilt—but it feels like an excuse.

Sarah hasn’t pushed.

Not when she’s been thinking about JJ every damn day.

She pulls out her phone with shaking hands, opening her calendar app.

Tracks back.

No.

Her knees give out.

She sits on the floor, heart racing.

Two and a half months ago was the first day of her last cycle.

The last time she had sex before Poguelandia was—was with JJ. The night he held her while she cried about Ward. The night she fell asleep in his bed and swore she’d never come back and did anyway.

And now—

Now she might be pregnant.

She runs out of the Chateau without even thinking about it. Just grabs her sandals, her purse, and her phone.

The beach cruiser wobbles over the cracked pavement, sand still clinging to the tires from earlier that morning. Sarah’s pedaling like her lungs are on fire, like if she moves fast enough she can outrun what she already knows.

She parks outside the drugstore without locking it.

Goes inside without sunglasses, without makeup, without a plan.

The girl behind the counter doesn’t even look up.

Sarah walks straight to the back.

She grabs three tests. One of them—the digital kind—says it can estimate how far along you are. It costs more. She buys it anyway.

Fuck it. If she’s going to be ruined, she wants the details.

She doesn’t go back to the Chateau.

Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even go to Kiara’s.

She takes them in the drugstore bathroom. Locked stall. Cold tile. Fluorescent lights that make her feel like she’s in a nightmare.

She rips the first box open with shaking hands.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Waits.

One minute. Two. Three.

She lines them up on the toilet paper dispenser like soldiers waiting to execute her.

One by one, they all turn positive.

The digital one doesn’t blink. It just loads. Loads. Loads.

And then:

8-9 weeks.

Her vision goes white.

She slides down the wall, knees to her chest.

She doesn’t cry.

She would, but it’s too big for tears. It’s a hurricane pressing into her chest, spinning so fast she can’t feel the center.

8-9 weeks.

The day Ward died.

The night she kissed JJ like he was the only air left in the world.

The night that never stopped mattering.

Her phone is in her pocket.

She pulls it out.

No hesitation.

we have to talk

No emoji. No punctuation.

Just the beginning of the end.

When his phone buzzes, JJ’s halfway through rolling a joint behind the Chateau. He glances at the screen, expecting some dumb meme from Pope or a sarcastic “where u at” from Kiara.

Instead, he sees her name.

we have to talk

Three words.

No emoji. No bullshit.

His heart drops into his stomach.

Twenty minutes later, he’s flying down the back roads on his dirtbike, wind clawing at his shirt, the ocean creeping closer with every turn. The beach she picked isn’t a tourist spot—it’s one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it patches of sand past the old fishing dock. Locals call it Dead Man’s Cove for reasons no one really knows.

JJ calls it quiet.

They’ve been there before. Once, when the Pogues were still whole and the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.

Now she’s waiting for him again.

But this time—it’s different.

He cuts the engine and sees her silhouette by the water.

She’s barefoot, arms wrapped around herself, hair pulled back like she didn’t have time to make it look effortless. She’s wearing a hoodie that isn’t hers. Maybe John B’s. Maybe not.

JJ swings his leg off the bike, doesn’t speak until he’s a few steps away.

“You okay?” he asks.

She doesn’t turn around. “No.”

He nods once. Tries to pretend he doesn’t feel like vomiting. “Okay. Hit me.”

She finally looks at him.

Her eyes are red. Not crying—just exhausted.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

It doesn’t hit like a bomb. It hits like a slow-motion car crash.

JJ just stares at her.

“Say that again,” he says, like maybe he didn’t hear it right the first time.

“I’m pregnant,” Sarah repeats, voice steadier now. “Eight or nine weeks.”

He does the math.

Barbados. Poguelandia. Back in the OBX.

Ward’s death.

His bed.

Her fingers on his skin like she didn’t know where else to go.

JJ takes a step back. Sits down hard in the sand like his knees just gave out.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Fuck. Sarah—”

“I haven’t told anyone else,” she says quickly. “Not John B. Not Kiara. Not anyone.”

He runs a hand through his hair, gripping the roots like he needs the pain to focus.

“Is it mine?”

Sarah kneels in front of him, folding her legs slowly.

“It’s not John B’s,” she says. “We haven’t… since we got back. Just… once. On the island. And before that—it was us. That night.”

JJ closes his eyes.

And the sound of the ocean is suddenly too loud.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Just sits there with his hands in the sand, breathing like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Sarah doesn’t cry. But she looks like she could. Like her whole body is buzzing beneath the surface, waiting to shatter.

“I took the tests in the bathroom at the drugstore,” she says quietly. “Today. Three of them.”

JJ swallows. “All positive?”

She nods. “One of them said eight to nine weeks. That’s how I know.”

“That’s…” He does the math again and his voice breaks. “That’s definitely the night we—”

“Yeah.”

His chest tightens. His hands curl into fists in the sand. “Fuck.”

“I know.”

He looks up at her then. Really looks.

And she’s not okay either.

She’s got her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s holding her ribs in place. Like if she doesn’t, she’ll come undone right here on the beach.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she says. “I thought—stress, maybe. Malnutrition. I mean, we were stuck on a fucking island for a month.”

JJ snorts, but it’s empty. “Poguelandia isn’t exactly prenatal care.”

She almost laughs. Almost.

But then she goes quiet again.

“I’m scared,” she says.

JJ looks at her. “Me too.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds, both of them staring at the waves like the answers might rise out of the surf.

Then he says, “Do you know what you want to do?”

Sarah shakes her head instantly. “No. I don’t even know what I feel. I just… I couldn’t keep it to myself.”

He nods, jaw tight.

“You came to me,” he says softly. “Not John B.”

“I couldn’t go to him,” she snaps, then sighs. “He’s pulling away. He’s barely even here. He’s always off with his dad but he won’t talk about it, and if I told him this—”

She breaks off. Closes her eyes.

“I think it would break us,” she finishes. “Or maybe it already has.”

JJ doesn’t answer.

Because all he can think is you came to me.

After a minute, Sarah shifts closer.

She rests her forehead against his, their noses brushing, breath tangled.

“I don’t know what this means,” she whispers. “For us. For me. For anything.”

JJ’s voice is raw. “I don’t either.”

“But I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

“You’re not,” he says. Instantly. Fiercely.

She opens her eyes, and he sees it—fear, yes. But something else too. Trust. Something that matters.

JJ lifts a shaking hand and places it on her stomach, tentative and light.

It’s not a declaration. It’s not a promise.

But it’s something.

Something real.

The sun is starting to rise.

The sky shifts from deep navy to the faintest blush of pink, clouds streaked in gold like someone tried to paint over the dark. The waves are quieter now. Slower. Like even the ocean is holding its breath.

Sarah leans into JJ’s side, and he lets her.

No hesitation.

His arm wraps around her shoulders, grounding her like he always does—without asking, without question. Like her weight is something he’s never minded carrying.

She’s trembling.

He is too.

They don’t talk. Not at first.

They just sit there, two kids on a forgotten stretch of beach, with the future curled tight and quiet between them.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s something else. Something almost holy.

Eventually, Sarah whispers, “We should head back soon.”

JJ nods, but doesn’t move. Not yet.

She doesn’t either.

Instead, she rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes, and breathes like she’s trying to memorize the shape of this moment.

JJ’s hand is still on her stomach.

Still holding on.

He looks out at the horizon, barely lit now, pink bleeding into gold.

“It doesn’t feel real yet,” he says quietly.

Sarah hums. “It doesn’t feel anything yet. Just… everything all at once.”

JJ glances down. “You think it’s already in there? The heartbeat?”

She swallows hard. “Eight weeks… there should be.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, “That’s insane.”

Sarah almost smiles. “I know.”

JJ exhales. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I don’t either.”

He turns toward her, more fully now. Not just to hold her—but to see her.

“But we’re not doing it alone,” he says.

Sarah looks at him, and something in her—some ancient piece of hurt—starts to thaw.

“No,” she agrees softly. “We’re not.”

The sun crests the edge of the water.

Sarah leans into JJ like she doesn’t trust the world without him there. He tightens his arm around her just slightly.

Neither of them says it.

But both of them feel it.

This is the beginning.

And it’s already changing everything.

The Chateau is too quiet.

Sarah’s pacing the kitchen barefoot, wringing her hands, trying not to look at the clock. Every tick sounds louder than it should. Like the walls are watching.

She keeps going over it in her head.

We were careful, but maybe not careful enough.

It must’ve been the island.

It’s the only thing that makes sense.

She can feel the words forming on her tongue—like ash, like sin—and still she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rethink it.

Because if she doesn’t lie, she loses everything.

John B comes through the door like always—dust on his shoulders, dirt under his nails, hair stuck to his forehead from the heat. He tosses his keys on the counter, glances at her, and frowns.

“You okay?”

It’s not tenderness. It’s observation. A reflex.

“I need to tell you something,” she says.

And then it’s now or never.

He sinks into the worn couch while she perches on the edge of the coffee table, hands clenched tight in her lap. Her stomach churns.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

Just like that.

No buildup. No apology. No explanation.

John B blinks. “What?”

“I took a test. Three, actually.” She forces a smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure.”

He leans back, like the couch just stole all his strength. Rubs a hand down his face.

And then—finally—he looks at her. “How far along?”

Her breath catches. Lie now. Lie fast.

“I think… maybe five or six weeks?” Her voice is light, shaky. “That one time. On the island.”

She watches him carefully.

He nods. Slowly. Like he’s solving a puzzle and the pieces almost fit.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Okay. Okay.”

He stands up, paces once, twice. Then comes to stand in front of her.

“We were careful,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “But I guess… we weren’t exactly thinking about birth control when we didn’t know if we’d ever come back home again.”

Her heart stops.

Just for a second.

And then she nods.

“Yeah. I didn’t think it would actually happen. But I’m sure.”

Because what else can she say?

He wraps his arms around her a second later.

It’s stiff. Mechanical.

Like he’s checking a box labeled Be Supportive Boyfriend.

She lets him hold her.

And she doesn’t cry.

Because crying would mean this hurts more than it should.

That night, they lie in bed together and say nothing. His hand finds her stomach like he’s trying to make it real. She turns away and closes her eyes.

In her dreams, JJ’s hand is there instead.

And when she wakes up, she feels like a stranger in her own skin.

The scent of bacon hits her before she’s even fully awake.

For a second, she thinks she’s dreaming.

Then she hears the clatter of pans, the hiss of oil, the sound of John B whistling off-key in the kitchen—and the lie slams back into her chest like a fist.

She pulls the blanket tighter around her body, turns her face into the pillow, and tries not to breathe too loud. But it’s too late.

He calls out before she can fake sleep again.

“Babe? I made coffee! And like… eggs? Kind of. You hungry?”

She forces a smile into her voice. “Yeah. Be right there.”

Ten minutes later, the Pogues are filing into the kitchen like nothing’s changed. Pope is already halfway through a banana. Cleo’s making jokes about JJ’s hair. Kiara’s still in a hoodie, sleepy-eyed and barefoot.

And JJ—

JJ’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, gaze flicking to her before he quickly looks away.

Like he already knows.

Like the lie has weight and it’s pressing on him too.

John B clears his throat and holds up his coffee mug.

“Okay, so… we have news.”

Sarah’s heart beats so hard she swears it shakes the table.

She smiles anyway.

The kind of smile that hurts.

He knew something was up the second he smelled bacon.

John B cooking is never a good sign.

It means he’s either trying to apologize, trying to impress someone, or—apparently—trying to announce that he knocked up his girlfriend.

JJ’s leaning against the counter, chewing on the inside of his cheek, when John B raises his mug and grins.

“Okay, so… we have news.”

Sarah doesn’t look at him.

Not once.

The words come out like it’s a joke, like he’s still not sure he believes them.

“We’re, uh… we’re having a baby.”

Pope chokes on his banana.

Cleo actually drops the toast she was making.

Kiara freezes mid-step.

JJ doesn’t move.

There’s a half-beat of silence.

Then everyone’s talking at once—Cleo’s shouting “You serious?!”, Pope’s trying to calculate the timeline like a math problem, Kiara’s grinning in that shocked, overwhelmed way people do when they don’t know how else to react.

And Sarah?

Sarah just nods.

Smiles.

Lies.

JJ forces himself to smile too.

It feels like glass in his mouth.

He pushes off the counter, moves toward the fridge like he’s just grabbing juice, like he’s totally fine and not suddenly watching his whole world tilt sideways.

He hears Kiara ask when they found out.

John B says, “Last night.”

JJ opens the fridge and stares into it like the milk holds answers.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there before the door swings shut behind him and he’s outside. Alone.

The sun is too bright. The air is too hot.

He lights a cigarette with shaking hands.

Last night.

She told him last night.

That it was his.

That she didn’t know what to do. That she was scared. That she came to him.

And now she’s smiling in the kitchen while John B beams like a boy with a brand-new toy.

JJ exhales smoke.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing does.

He wants to punch something. Scream. Run.

But all he does is sit on the back steps and press the heels of his palms to his eyes.

Because she chose this.

She chose him.

And JJ?

JJ Maybank’s just the mistake she’s trying to forget.

He doesn’t even hear her come out.

He’s been sitting on the porch steps for what feels like an hour, elbow on his knee, cigarette long dead between his fingers. The air’s turned thick with the afternoon heat. The kind that makes everything feel heavier.

When Sarah speaks, her voice is quiet. Careful.

“You gonna talk to me?”

JJ doesn’t look at her.

He just flicks the ash off his boot and mutters, “Thought we already did that.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just walks down two steps and sits beside him, close but not touching. Her knee almost grazes his. He shifts away.

“I didn’t lie to you,” she says.

JJ barks out a laugh, sharp and bitter. “No? ‘Cause it sure as hell sounded like John B thinks that kid is his.”

Sarah flinches. But she holds her ground.

“I told you first.”

JJ finally looks at her. His eyes are wild. Hurt. “And then you told him what he wanted to hear.”

Her hands curl into fists in her lap.

“I told him what would keep this from exploding,” she says. “What would keep the group from breaking apart. What would keep you from losing everything again.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t make this about me, Sarah. You made a choice.”

“I did!” she snaps. “I chose you. I just… didn’t choose you publicly.”

JJ goes quiet.

The words sting more than he expected.

She turns to face him.

Her eyes are glassy now. Raw. Honest.

“I hate sneaking around,” she says. “I hate lying to people I love. But I also hate the idea of everything falling apart just because of one night.”

JJ laughs again. Softer this time. Sadder.

“That night wasn’t just a night.”

She nods.

“I know.”

He looks at her. “Then why are we pretending it was?”

Her voice drops.

“Because pretending is the only way I get to keep you and them.”

The silence stretches between them. And it hurts.

Then Sarah says, barely above a whisper:

“I came to you first for a reason.”

JJ breathes in like it might kill him.

She leans in.

Their lips meet—quick, messy, stolen. A kiss that tastes like panic and promises neither of them can make.

When she pulls back, her forehead presses against his.

They stay like that. Close enough to feel the heat. Not close enough to feel okay.

“I’m yours,” she whispers. “Even if no one else gets to know.”

JJ closes his eyes.

And for a moment, it almost feels like enough.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

But when she shifts beside him, pulling out her phone, he watches. Quiet. Attentive. Like he’s afraid if he blinks she’ll vanish.

She hesitates for a second. Just a second. Then dials.

Speakerphone.

A chirpy voice answers on the third ring. “Seaside Women’s Health, this is Lauren—how can I help you today?”

Sarah clears her throat. “Hi, um. I just found out I’m pregnant. I haven’t been to a doctor yet. I was wondering if I could… make an appointment?”

JJ’s breath hitches beside her.

She doesn’t look at him, but she slides her pinky across the step until it touches his. Just barely.

“Sure,” the receptionist says, tapping keys. “Do you know roughly how far along you are?”

Sarah swallows. “Eight weeks. Maybe nine.”

JJ closes his eyes.

The number sinks into him like a stone. His stone. Their stone.

“Okay,” Lauren says. “Let’s get you in. We’ll start with a confirmation, prenatal bloodwork, and a dating ultrasound. Do mornings work for you?”

Sarah glances at JJ. He nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “Mornings are good.”

After she hangs up, it’s quiet again.

But this time, it’s a different kind of quiet.

JJ finally speaks.

“I didn’t think you were gonna go.”

Sarah smiles, small but real. “I wasn’t. Not yet.”

She tilts her head toward him. “But then I realized… you should be there.”

JJ’s mouth twitches. “What, to hold your hand during the blood draw?”

She bumps her knee against his. “Maybe. Or maybe just to sit in the waiting room and steal all the free mints.”

He snorts. “Hell yeah. I’m gonna eat so many prenatal mints.”

And for a second, just a second, they laugh.

It’s light. It’s soft. It’s stolen.

But it’s real.

And JJ feels like maybe, she is choosing him after all.

The waiting room smells like lemon disinfectant.

Sarah’s sitting with her legs crossed, thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Parents Today like it might distract her from the way JJ keeps nervously bouncing his leg beside her.

“You good?” she whispers, glancing at him over the magazine.

“I’m chill,” JJ says, voice low. “Super chill. So chill I’m basically frozen.”

“You’re shaking the entire bench.”

“It’s called vibrating with fatherly anticipation, Sarah. Google it.”

She bites down on a laugh. “You’re not even the one getting the blood drawn.”

JJ makes a face like she just told him he’s getting neutered. “Yeah, well. I’m not great with needles, alright? I blacked out once giving blood at a high school drive. Landed face-first in the nurse’s cleavage.”

Sarah covers her mouth to keep from snorting.

The receptionist calls her name before she can make a smartass reply.

The exam room is small, sterile, and painted an offensively cheerful shade of mint green.

JJ’s in the corner, spinning on the little stool with wheels until Sarah gives him a look. Then he grabs the side and mutters something about “maintaining professionalism.”

The ultrasound tech enters with a clipboard and a kind smile. She raises an eyebrow at JJ.

“Boyfriend?”

Sarah freezes.

JJ looks up like a deer in headlights.

Then Sarah says quickly, “He’s my… support system.”

JJ nods solemnly. “Emotional support Pogue.”

The tech doesn’t even blink. “Love that. Shirt up and lie back, hun. Let’s get a look at this peanut.”

It happens fast.

A smear of gel. The gentle press of the wand. The grainy screen flickers to life.

And then—

There it is.

The tiniest flicker.

Heartbeat.

JJ goes completely still.

Sarah glances over, and his face is cracked wide open. Wonder, awe, disbelief—all of it written in the quiet way he just stares.

“You okay?” she whispers.

JJ nods.

Barely.

“Is that… that’s real?”

The ultrasound tech smiles. “That’s the baby.”

JJ covers his mouth with one hand.

Then slowly, he reaches out—just enough to lace his fingers with Sarah’s.

No one says anything.

They’re in a mint-green room on a Tuesday morning, and the world has never been louder or more quiet.

After the technician leaves, JJ doesn’t let go of Sarah’s hand.

Not even when she sits up and wipes the gel off her stomach.

Not even when she tucks the little black-and-white printout into her bag like a secret.

“You gonna tell him?” JJ asks finally, voice low.

Sarah doesn’t look at him.

“Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

They leave through the side entrance.

The beach is tucked between two private estates, just off a winding road Sarah hasn’t driven in years.

The sand here is soft and pale, almost white. The waves are calmer. The houses behind them are huge, sterile. Empty this time of year. A summer beach—quiet now, abandoned like a stage after the show ends.

“I used to come here with my family,” Sarah says as they walk. “Before everything got so… complicated.”

JJ looks over at her, hair blowing wild in the breeze. She’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, cradling her stomach out of habit.

“Complicated like… your dad being a murderer, or complicated like you finding out you liked Pogues?”

She snorts. “Both.”

They find a patch of sand near the dunes and sit down. No towels. No music. Just the sound of water and wind and whatever’s left of the morning sun.

Sarah pulls the ultrasound photo from her bag and lays it gently between them.

JJ stares at it like he still doesn’t believe it’s real.

Sarah doesn’t touch it.

“I used to think Ward was a hero,” she says. “He’d take me here in the early mornings. Just us. He’d carry me on his shoulders and say this was ‘our secret place.’ He’d pick up seashells and tell me which ones were lucky.”

JJ stays quiet.

She lets the words hang.

“I think I’ve been trying to get back to that version of him ever since. But he’s gone. Maybe he never existed.”

JJ leans back on his hands.

“My dad used to take me fishing,” he says after a beat. “Just off the pier near the Cut. Taught me how to hook bait, cast, all that. He even let me drive the boat once. I was seven. Thought I was king of the world.”

Sarah turns to look at him.

“And then?”

JJ shrugs. “Then he stopped showing up. Started spending more time with a bottle than with me. Started swinging instead of teaching.”

He picks up a piece of driftwood and snaps it in half.

“Sometimes I wonder if I made the good parts up.”

Sarah’s quiet for a moment.

Then: “You didn’t.”

JJ looks at her.

She reaches over and takes his hand.

“You remember them because they mattered. Even if everything after got ruined.”

He swallows hard.

The ocean crashes behind them.

Sarah squeezes his fingers. “Maybe we get to give someone better memories. The kind that don’t get rewritten.”

JJ’s voice is hoarse. “You really think we can?”

She nods. “Yeah. I do.”

And when he kisses her this time, it’s not frantic or stolen. It’s slow. Gentle. Full of everything they can’t say yet.

They drive for a while, just looping aimlessly through Figure Eight. The roads wind like a memory, and Sarah points out houses she used to go to for birthday parties, what parking lot she learned to drive in, where Rafe crashed a golf cart into a fence.

JJ listens. Really listens. One hand on the wheel of her SUV, the other resting lazily on her thigh like it belongs there.

When they pass the baby boutique on the corner of Pine and Harlan, JJ brakes too fast.

Sarah looks up. “What?”

He points out the window.

The shop is cute and overpriced. White walls, gold trim, little neutral mannequins wearing cashmere rompers and hand-knitted hats.

“We should go in,” JJ says casually, like he didn’t just panic about fatherhood this morning. “Y’know. Scope it out. Vibe check the stroller options.”

Sarah blinks. “Are you serious?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanna see what kind of pacifiers rich babies suck on.”

Inside, it’s quiet and softly lit. Like a spa, but for tiny humans.

JJ’s immediately overwhelmed by the sheer number of items he doesn’t understand—wipe warmers, bottle brushes, swaddles that look like straightjackets. He walks through it all like he’s in a museum.

Sarah runs her fingers over the racks, smiling at the tiny sweaters, the impossibly small socks.

And then JJ finds it.

He doesn’t even think. Just buys it. Looks over his shoulder to make sure Sarah’s still distracted.

She’s holding a little pink hat in her hands, staring at it like she’s never seen anything so precious in her life.

And JJ knows the feeling.

He stares at her a beat too long before turning back around to pay.

Smiling to himself like he just won the lottery.

Back in the car, Sarah’s quiet.

The windows are cracked. The waves of Figure Eight feel a million miles away now, like they happened in another life.

She’s thumbing the edge of the ultrasound photo when JJ reaches into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.

He hesitates for a second—then pulls it out and places it in her lap.

A tiny onesie.

Soft beige cotton. No frills. No bright colors.

Just three simple words stitched in delicate cursive across the chest:

Daddy Loves Me

Sarah freezes.

Her fingers curl around the fabric like it’s breakable. Her breath catches. And then she looks at him.

Really looks.

JJ shrugs, eyes still on the windshield.

“I know we said we were gonna break the cycle,” he says, voice low. “But I didn’t think that meant we were gonna do it together.”

He swallows. “I didn’t think I’d get to… have this chance. Ever.”

Sarah doesn’t say anything.

Not yet.

So he keeps going.

“No matter what happens, this kid—” he gestures toward her stomach, then the onesie—“they’re not growing up scared. Not with a Ward. Not with a Luke. Just… love. Real love. Messy, sure. But honest. And full.”

She starts crying before he even finishes the sentence.

Big, shaky, impossible tears that she tries to wipe away but can’t.

JJ panics. “Shit, no—don’t cry, I didn’t mean to—”

She shakes her head, laughing through the sob. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just—”

She holds up the onesie, voice breaking:

“It’s perfect.”

He reaches over and takes her hand.

Presses it gently to his chest, right over his heart.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Not for a second.”

Sarah lets herself lean in.

Lets herself believe it.

And for the first time since she saw those two pink lines…

She feels excited for the future.

It’s quiet.

JJ’s driving one-handed, windows down, her playlist humming low through the speakers. Sarah’s got her seat reclined just enough, hand resting over her stomach like it’s instinct now.

The wind tangles her hair. The sun’s starting to set—gold pouring through the trees, painting everything in that magic-hour glow.

Neither of them says much.

But it’s not silence.

It’s peace.

JJ taps the wheel with his thumb, glances over at her. “You tired?”

“A little.”

“You want me to stop for snacks or something? Gas station slushies? Flaming Hot anything?”

She shakes her head, smiling softly. “No. I’m good.”

He nods, eyes back on the road.

But she keeps looking at him.

Like maybe she’s seeing something new in his profile. In the steady way his hand doesn’t leave the wheel. In the comfort she didn’t know she’d find on this stretch of cracked Kildare asphalt.

Finally, she whispers, “Thank you.”

JJ glances at her. “For what?”

Sarah shrugs. “Coming with me today. Not freaking out. Saying the exact right thing without knowing you did.”

He chuckles. “You’re giving me a lot of credit. Pretty sure I blacked out after the heartbeat part.”

She reaches over and intertwines their fingers across the center console.

“You showed up,” she says. “That’s what matters.”

JJ squeezes her hand.

Doesn’t let go.

And Sarah feels like he never will.

Sarah’s sixteen weeks now.

JJ’s sitting on the floor of his room, back against the bed, head tipped back like he’s trying to breathe through something heavy.

She’s curled on the mattress behind him, legs tucked under a blanket, one hand resting on her stomach. It’s evening—soft golden light spilling through the blinds, the kind of light that makes everything look a little more like a memory than a moment.

He hasn’t said anything for a while.

Just been quiet. Still. Un-JJ.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on in there?” she asks gently.

JJ huffs a laugh. It’s not funny.

“I dunno,” he mutters. “I just—what if I fuck this up?”

Sarah blinks. “This?”

He gestures vaguely. “All of it. The baby. You. Us.”

She scoots down the bed until she’s beside him, shoulder pressed to his.

“JJ.”

He doesn’t look at her.

“I mean, look at me. I don’t know how to be a dad. I didn’t exactly have the best example. I don’t even know what to do when you cry—except panic and make bad jokes.”

Sarah smiles. “You don’t panic. You make grilled cheese and pretend you don’t care when I cry into it.”

He doesn’t smile back.

“I’m serious,” he says. “What if I can’t do this? What if I… what if I turn into him?”

Sarah takes his hand.

Moves it down. Slowly. Gently.

Guides it over the curve of her belly and presses it there.

“Feel that?” she whispers.

JJ blinks. “Feel what—”

Kick.

His whole body goes still.

Another kick. Then a softer thump.

Right beneath his hand.

Like a message.

Like an answer.

JJ stares at her in disbelief. “Was that—”

Sarah nods, eyes misty. “That’s your baby.”

He looks down at her belly like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it.

Sarah’s voice is steady. Fierce. Loving.

“He or she is going to have your passion, JJ. Your stubbornness. Your fire. But they’re also going to have your loyalty. Your heart. All the things you don’t even know you have.”

JJ swallows hard. He doesn’t cry. Not really.

But his voice cracks.

“You think so?”

Sarah presses her forehead to his. “I know so.”

They sit like that for a while. In silence. His hand still on her stomach. Her fingers curled around his wrist like she’s anchoring him there.

When the baby kicks again, JJ closes his eyes.

And for the first time in days… he lets himself believe.

Nineteen weeks in, and Sarah’s officially showing.

Everyone knows.

Everyone thinks it’s John B’s.

Even John B.

He’s been… better lately. More attentive. Makes her tea. Kisses her forehead in front of the others. Puts his hand on her bump like he means it.

But it’s hollow. The affection feels rehearsed, like he’s learned how to act like a boyfriend by watching someone else do it better.

It only makes the lie worse.

JJ knows the real timeline. The real heartbeat. He was there for the first picture. The first flutter.

He never brings it up around the group. Never makes it awkward. He just shows up—quiet, steady, near.

He’s the one she texts when her back hurts or the baby kicks or her stomach turns sideways from a weird craving.

But it’s Kiara who’s really acting weird.

She’s stopped making eye contact when Sarah talks. Brushes her off with tight smiles. Always seems just about to say something—but never does.

She avoids JJ, too. Barely speaks to him. Barely looks at him unless it’s to glare like he stole something.

And when Pope tries to flirt—harmless, easy banter—she shuts him down so fast it gives Cleo whiplash.

Cleo notices everything, of course.

She leans over one afternoon while the group is eating lunch in the sun and whispers, “I think Kie’s got secrets. Big ones.”

Sarah shrugs. “We all do.”

Cleo gives her a look.

Sarah drops it.

Until she sees it for herself.

She’s heading into the Wreck later that night to grab fries and a milkshake—baby’s choice, not hers—when she hears laughter around the side of the building.

Familiar voices.

Curious, she rounds the corner.

And stops cold.

Kiara.

John B.

Close. Flushed.

He’s got a hand on her hip, fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt like it’s a reflex. She’s laughing into his mouth.

Then he kisses her.

Just a moment.

Just enough.

Like it’s normal.

Like it’s theirs.

Sarah doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t cry.

She just watches. And feels the weight start to lift.

Because suddenly? The lie isn’t hers anymore. She’s not the only one pretending.

And whatever guilt she’s been drowning in?

It doesn’t matter quite so much anymore.

The bonfire’s in full swing behind the Chateau.

Someone dragged out an old speaker and set it on a cooler. The music’s low and nostalgic—Bob Marley or something like it, crackling through the warm night air.

Cleo’s dancing with Pope, arms loose around his neck, laughing like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

JJ’s planted on a log with a beer in hand, eyes flicking between Sarah—curled up with her milkshake on a blanket—and the two people in front of the fire.

Kiara.

And John B.

Kiara’s the first to move.

She’s in one of her old band tees, sleeves cut off, bouncing on bare feet as she twirls once in the sand. Her laugh cuts through the firelight. She spins back toward the group and throws her arms out, beckoning.

“C’mon, JB!”

John B makes a face. Points to his chest, all mock-offended. “Who, me?”

Kiara rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Yes, you, dumbass. Dance with me!”

He gets up with a dramatic sigh like it’s a burden, brushing sand off his shorts as he walks over.

They start dancing.

Not close—just grooving. Kiara twirling under her own arm, John B mimicking her rhythm, tossing in ridiculous moves that make her laugh.

There’s barely any touching.

But the look is there.

Fleeting. Flashing.

Every time she glances back at him. Every time his grin fades just a little too long after she smiles.

JJ feels it like a gut punch.

Not the touch. Not the dance.

The look.

That look they give each other when they think no one’s paying attention.

JJ’s seen that look before.

On himself.

On Sarah.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lifts his beer to his lips and watches, quiet as the truth clicks into place like the final piece of a puzzle.

He doesn’t say anything that night. Doesn’t cause a scene.

But later—after John B and Kiara are asleep on the pull-out again and Sarah’s curled up in his bed, hoodie stretched over her bump, hand absentmindedly stroking her stomach—he finally speaks.

“They’re hooking up, aren’t they?”

Sarah looks up.

“Who?”

“Don’t,” JJ says softly. “Don’t lie. I saw them at the bonfire. I saw the way he looked at her.”

Sarah’s quiet for a moment.

Then: “I was going to tell you.”

JJ sits on the edge of the bed, back to her, staring at the floor like the answers might be there.

“Why didn’t you?”

She pulls herself upright slowly.

“Because I was still trying to figure it out. Everything’s just so loud right now. I’m barely keeping my head above water.”

He nods once. Jaw tight.

“They’re not just friends,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Sarah doesn’t deny it.

“I caught them behind the Wreck,” she admits. “The other night.”

JJ exhales like it’s a release. Like the truth still hurts, even when you already knew it.

It’s late when they finally talk about it.

Sarah’s lying on her side in JJ’s bed, fingers tracing lazy circles over the curve of her stomach. JJ’s stretched out beside her, one arm slung under his head, the other resting lightly on her hip.

They’ve been quiet for a while. Not because there’s nothing to say—but because the weight of everything they could say has been sitting in the space between them.

Finally, Sarah breaks the silence.

“I thought I’d be more angry.”

JJ hums. “You’re not?”

“I mean… yeah. A little. But mostly?” She exhales. “I’m sad.”

JJ turns his head to look at her.

“Yeah.”

She nods. “I loved John B. Maybe not the way I thought I did, but… it still hurts. Watching him look at someone else like that.”

JJ doesn’t respond right away.

Then: “Kie was my best friend. Before all this. Before everything got messy. I knew she’d never pick me, not really. But it still stings.”

Sarah moves closer. Slides her hand into his. “We’re allowed to be sad about what we’re losing. Even if it wasn’t right anymore.”

JJ squeezes her fingers.

“But,” he says, voice quieter, “I can breathe again.”

Sarah closes her eyes. “Me too.”

They lie there, holding each other, not hiding anymore—at least not from themselves.

And somewhere in the stillness, it clicks.

The sneaking around is almost over.

The truth is coming.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a threat.

It feels like freedom.

The dock creaks under their feet as JJ and Sarah walk up, side by side.

The Pogues are already there—John B tossing pebbles into the water, Kiara nursing a Sprite, Cleo sprawled across a towel like a queen with a bag of Doritos in between them, and Pope with a half-written notebook in his lap.

They look up when they hear footsteps.

Sarah’s heart is hammering.

JJ just gives her the tiniest nod.

Let’s do it.

“We need to talk,” Sarah says.

The tone is serious enough that Pope immediately goes still.

“Shit,” Cleo mutters. “Who died?”

“No one,” JJ says. “But you might wanna sit with this.”

Sarah takes a deep breath.

“It’s about the baby.”

John B goes still.

JJ swears he sees Kiara’s jaw clench.

Sarah doesn’t flinch.

“It’s not John B’s.”

Silence.

Even the water seems to pause.

“It’s mine,” JJ says, voice clear. Firm.

For a moment, no one says anything.

Then John B laughs once—an empty, disbelieving sound. “Wow.”

Kiara sits up straighter, blinking. “You’re serious?”

Sarah nods. “I should’ve told you sooner. I wanted to. I just—didn’t know how.”

JJ crosses his arms. “And for the record, I didn’t ask her to lie. But I didn’t stop her either.”

Pope looks between them. “So… this whole time? We’ve all just been pretending?”

Cleo raises an eyebrow. “Oh please. You all are terrible at pretending.”

“Don’t,” Kiara snaps suddenly, eyes flashing. “Don’t make jokes. This is serious. You—” she turns to Sarah—“you let us all believe something that wasn’t true. You let John B believe it.”

John B throws up a hand. “You think I didn’t already suspect something?”

Kiara rounds on him. “That’s not the point.”

Sarah’s voice rises. “Then what is the point, Kie? That I made a mistake? I know I did.”

Kiara stands. “A mistake? That’s what you call it?”

Sarah’s voice cracks. “What do you want me to say? That I’m a terrible person? That I’m sorry?”

Kiara opens her mouth.

Then closes it.

Because the words she’s about to say would’ve hurt. Bad.

And maybe she doesn’t want to hurt Sarah.

Not really.

Not anymore.

JJ steps forward, tension in his shoulders.

“If we’re gonna talk about lying,” he says carefully, “maybe we should talk about you two.”

He doesn’t look at Kiara.

He looks at John B.

The pebble in his hand freezes mid-throw.

Sarah watches it all unravel.

Kiara exhales like she’s been holding it in for weeks. “We didn’t mean for it to happen.”

John B drags a hand through his hair, eyes heavy with something deeper than guilt.

“It just… did.”

JJ just nods.

“Then I guess we all got something to be sorry for.”

John B looks at Kiara then—really looks at her. Not in panic. Not in deflection.

With something like clarity.

“I spent so long chasing everything else,” he says quietly. “Gold. Danger. Sarah. Trying to fix something that was already broken.”

He swallows hard.

“And the whole time… you were right there.”

Kiara’s breath catches.

“I wasn’t ready to see it before. Or maybe I just didn’t think I deserved it.”

Cleo whistles under her breath. “Damn. Is everyone gonna fall apart tonight or should I come back later?”

JJ snorts.

Pope rubs his temples. “I’m in hell.”

Cleo just says, “Told you.”

John B turns to Sarah.

“I should’ve been honest with you sooner. About a lot of things.”

Sarah blinks back tears. “Me too.”

And just like that, it’s not forgiveness exactly—but something close. Something possible.

No one storms off.

No one yells.

They just sit together as the sun sets, everything out in the open for once.

Messy. Imperfect.

But true.

The silence after John B and Kiara’s confession is heavy—but not hostile.

It’s the kind of quiet that comes when there’s nothing left to hide.

Everyone shifts slightly on the dock, like they’re trying to figure out what this new version of them feels like.

Then Pope clears his throat. “Soooo… just to recap: JJ and Sarah are having a baby. John B and Kiara are together. And I’m the only one here not entangled in a romantic lie?”

Cleo raises a hand. “Excuse me. We’re the sane ones now.”

“Speak for yourself,” Pope mutters. “I’m one more twist away from joining a cult.”

Cleo throws a chip at him. “Next thing I know, you’re going to be telling us you hooked up with Topper.”

That earns a round of snorts.

JJ smirks. “There’s still time.”

Pope gives them all a withering look. “Y’all are so emotionally unstable, it’s honestly inspiring.”

Sarah, finally relaxed enough to laugh, glances over at JJ. He’s sitting beside her now, knee bumping hers like it’s instinct.

“I guess we should probably explain… how it happened.”

Kiara raises an eyebrow. “You mean the immaculate conception?”

“Shut up,” Sarah says, smiling.

JJ glances out at the water. “It was the night Ward died. Everything was falling apart, and she showed up at my place crying and… I didn’t ask questions. I just held her.”

Sarah adds, “And it felt like the only thing that made sense.”

John B nods slowly. There’s no bitterness in his expression now—just acceptance. Maybe even a sliver of peace.

“I get that,” he says. “I really do.”

They all fall into easier conversation after that.

Kiara admits she kissed John B first. Pope makes a dramatic face and declares he’s never trusting any of them again.

Cleo suggests they all go on a group therapy retreat—somewhere with no cell service and lots of weed.

For the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like something’s about to break.

It feels like they’re finally putting the pieces back together.

The dock slowly clears as the sky fades to gold.

Pope and Cleo wander off together, still laughing about “Toppergate.” Kiara follows John B back toward the Twinkie, brushing her fingers against his as they go.

And then it’s just JJ and Sarah.

The air is still. Warm. Salt-soft.

Sarah shifts beside him, hand resting over her belly. The way she always does now.

“You were amazing tonight,” she says, voice low.

JJ shrugs. “Didn’t do much.”

“You stood by me,” she says. “That’s everything.”

He looks over at her, really looks. The firelight from the beach still flickers faintly across her face—cheeks flushed, hair a little wild from the wind. Her hoodie’s pulled tight over her belly.

His hoodie.

His baby.

His girl.

He reaches over and touches her hand. “I don’t know how, Sarah,” he says, quiet and steady, “but I’m gonna give you the world.”

His thumb brushes across her knuckles.

“You and our baby.”

Sarah’s throat tightens. She leans her head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

“We already have it,” she whispers.

JJ doesn’t answer right away.

He just leans down and presses a kiss to her temple—slow, lingering. Like he’s trying to memorize the way she feels against him.

They sit in that silence for a long time. The kind that says everything.

Then Sarah shifts, grabbing his hand again. She guides it to her stomach, placing it there like it’s second nature.

The baby kicks.

Just once.

But it’s strong.

JJ’s whole face lights up. “Holy shit.”

Sarah laughs. “You’ve felt it before.”

“Yeah, but every time is like—” He breaks off, shaking his head with a grin. “Like the universe is trying to prove I didn’t screw it all up.”

Sarah’s eyes shine. “You didn’t. You haven’t.”

He turns to her. Serious now.

“Promise me something?”

She nods.

JJ swallows. “If I mess this up—I mean, if I panic, or say the wrong thing, or forget how to be good—you’ll remind me. That I can be.”

Sarah reaches up, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing across the scar just beneath his cheekbone.

“You already are.”

JJ leans into her touch. “Yeah?”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

And then he does something he’s never done in front of anyone.

He takes her hand.

And presses it to his heart.

Slow. Certain.

“Yours,” he says softly. “Every beat.”

JJ had no idea where to start.

He was standing dead center in the living room of the Maybank house—hands on his hips, surrounded by a mess he couldn’t blame on anyone but himself.

Empty beer cans. Crushed cigarette boxes. A pair of boots with holes in the soles. A couch cushion that had definitely seen better days, and a faint smell of mildew clinging to the corners like regret.

He scratched the back of his neck.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s fix this shit.”

It wasn’t just about the baby.

It was about her.

Sarah.

She’d spent the last few months tiptoeing through this house like it was made of glass, like one wrong move might shatter the illusion that they could make this work.

JJ was done with illusions.

If they were gonna do this—if he was really gonna be a dad—then it had to start here.

With a clean floor. A safe space. A door she could walk through without holding her breath.

He started with the storage room.

The door creaked when he opened it. It always had. Used to scare the shit out of him as a kid—like something might be waiting in there.

Turns out, what was waiting was junk.

Old fishing gear. Broken chair legs. A busted PlayStation with dried paint splattered on it. A stack of yellowing magazines and boxes that hadn’t been touched in a decade.

He pulled one down and blew off the dust.

Inside: photos.

JJ sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by clutter, flipping through time like it might change something.

One photo caught him off guard.

A younger version of himself—maybe five or six—missing a front tooth, grinning up at the camera with a fish almost bigger than his torso.

His dad beside him. One arm around JJ’s shoulders. Both of them soaked and sunburnt.

The picture had edges that curled and cracked, like it had been bent too many times. But the smile was real.

JJ stared at it for a long time.

“Guess you had your moments, huh?” he said quietly.

Then he tucked the photo into his pocket and stood.

He scrubbed every inch of that room after.

Vacuumed. Washed the windows. Painted the walls a soft, warm gray he found on sale. He didn’t know what color the baby would like—hell, they didn’t even know the gender yet—but he wanted something calm. Something safe.

By the time the sun dipped low, the space didn’t feel like a storage room anymore.

It felt like a beginning.

The crib came in three separate boxes and no instructions.

Classic.

JJ stared at the parts spread across the nursery floor—slats, screws, mysterious little wood pegs that looked way too breakable for something that was supposed to hold a baby.

“Okay,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Can’t be that hard.”

Twenty minutes in, he was already sweating.

An hour later, he’d reassembled the base upside down twice, dropped a screw into the floor vent, and yelled “this baby better come out with a screwdriver in hand” loud enough to make the neighbor’s dog bark.

But he kept going.

Because Sarah had ordered it weeks ago. Delivered it to the Chateau with plans to build it herself. She hadn’t said that out loud, but he’d seen the receipt. The timestamp.

And he’d snuck it into the Twinkie like it was a goddamn diamond he wasn’t worthy of holding.

He finally got it upright.

Sturdy. Balanced.

Not perfect—but close enough.

Then he tested it.

Shoved at it with both hands. Checked the spacing between the slats. Googled crib safety standards on his cracked phone for twenty minutes.

Because what if it wasn’t safe?

What if it collapsed?

What if the screws came loose?

What if he messed it all up, like everything else?

JJ sank down onto the floor, back against the freshly painted wall, heart racing for no reason he could name.

No. Not for no reason.

He knew exactly what this was.

He was picturing his dad passed out in the hallway. The door that never locked. The screaming. The slammed cabinets. The night he slept outside because it felt safer.

The house had never felt safe.

And now he was building one.

For someone else.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

And when he looked up again, the crib was still there.

Still solid.

Still standing.

Just like him.

JJ pulled it together.

He tightened the last screw on the crib, double-checked the latch on the changing table drawer, and levelled the shelf he’d installed three times before deciding it was straight enough.

Then he stepped back and looked at the room.

Soft gray walls. A little lamp in the corner with a warm yellow glow. A basket of folded onesies, stacked diapers, a stuffed dolphin Sarah had mentioned once in passing and JJ had found at a thrift store for two bucks.

It wasn’t fancy.

But it was ready.

He left the nursery and wandered the rest of the house, pushing open doors, touching the corners that used to feel dark and forgotten.

The kitchen had been scrubbed. Counters cleared. Fridge cleaned. He’d replaced two lightbulbs, tightened the loose knob on the bathroom sink, and vacuumed the rug he was pretty sure hadn’t seen a vacuum since 2015.

It still smelled like salt and dust and distant cigarette smoke—but it also smelled like change.

Like he gave a shit.

Like someone might actually want to stay.

He walked into the living room, stood in the center again, and let out a breath.

It didn’t feel like just "the Maybank house" anymore.

It felt like theirs.

Then he heard her knock.

He practically tripped over himself getting to the door.

Sarah stood there in a flowy black dress and one of his zip-ups, hair half up, sunglasses pushed into her curls. She looked exhausted.

Beautiful.

But exhausted.

“Hey,” she said, rubbing her belly absently. “I brought snacks. And possibly sciatica.”

JJ grinned and leaned against the frame. “You look like you need a chair, a fan, and like… a day’s worth of foot rubs.”

She groaned. “God, yes. My ankles look like water balloons.”

“Wanna come in?”

“I want to collapse.”

“Then I got just the place.”

He stepped aside.

And let her into the home he built for her.

JJ helps her ease down onto the couch, her body moving slower now—26 weeks of baby and backaches and restless nights in the Chateau wearing her down.

She exhales as she sinks into the cushions. “Oh my god. I’m never moving again.”

He grabs a throw pillow and carefully tucks it under her feet. “Then I guess I live here now too.”

Sarah smiles, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Then they open again, scanning the room.

She blinks.

“JJ…”

He looks up from where he’s adjusting the pillow under her knees.

“What?”

She gestures weakly. “What is this?”

The floors are clean. The clutter’s gone. The couch has a throw blanket on it that doesn’t smell like bong water.

The kitchen light is on.

“This is…” she trails off, voice soft. “This is not what this house used to be.”

JJ sits beside her, facing slightly sideways, one leg tucked under the other.

“It’s ours now,” he says. “Our house. Our future.”

Sarah turns to look at him, lips parting, but he keeps going. Voice low. Steady.

“It’s not much right now. I know that. The ceiling still creaks and the back door sticks and I think the fridge hums in Morse code—but I promise you, Sarah…”

He turns fully to her.

“I plan on giving you so much more.”

He swallows. His fingers twitch, then settle gently on the curve of her thigh.

“If you trust me. If you’re patient. You’ll see how much I love you.”

The words land.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Not said in the middle of a fight or a kiss or a hospital delivery room.

Said now.

Because he wants her to know.

Sarah doesn’t answer right away.

She just stares at him, wide-eyed, already welling up.

And then she laughs—wet and wrecked and overjoyed—and covers her face with one hand as the tears spill over.

“I love you too,” she whispers. “God, JJ. I love you so much.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for months.

And then he leans in.

Kisses her slow. Like the kind of man who plans to stay.

JJ brushes a tear off her cheek with his thumb.

“You okay?” he asks, still a little breathless from what they just said.

Sarah laughs through the tears. “Yeah. Hormonal and puffy, but okay.”

He grins. “Wanna see something?”

She raises an eyebrow. “More than I’ve already seen?”

JJ stands and reaches for her hands, pulling her gently to her feet.

“Come on. You’ve earned it.”

She waddles a little down the hall, grumbling about her feet, but JJ keeps a hand on the small of her back, guiding her.

When they stop in front of the door, she recognizes it.

The old storage room.

She turns to him. “JJ…”

He gives her a soft look.

“Open it.”

She does.

And stops breathing.

The room is glowing.

She steps inside, hand flying to her mouth.

The dolphin plush sits on the shelf.

“Is that—?”

“From the thrift store on King Street,” JJ says. “Had to fight a grandma for it. But worth it.”

Sarah spins in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Her eyes are wide. Wet again.

“I can’t believe you did all this.”

JJ shrugs, but there’s a flush in his cheeks. “Didn’t want you to think I wasn’t all in.”

She walks over to the crib. Runs her fingers along the rail.

Then she turns to him, tear-streaked and glowing.

“I don’t think that,” she says. “Not for a second.”

JJ walks toward her, wraps his arms around her from behind, and rests his chin on her shoulder, both of them staring into the space where their future will sleep.

“We’re doing this,” she whispers.

JJ nods against her skin. “Yeah. We really are.”

“Where are the burp cloths?!”

Sarah’s voice echoes through the house, sharp and panicked, followed immediately by the sound of a drawer slamming shut.

JJ glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the crib, holding a mobile shaped like tiny sea turtles. “Top drawer. Left side. With the bibs.”

“They’re not with the bibs,” she calls back, already in the nursery doorway, hair pulled up in a messy bun, cheeks flushed. “They were supposed to be with the bibs, but now the bibs are mixed with the swaddles, and the swaddles are in the drawer with the—what are you doing with that?!”

JJ holds up the mobile like it might defend him. “Just trying to hang this guy before the shower? Thought it’d be cute.”

Sarah stares at him like he just suggested naming the baby Topper.

“JJ, the screws for that are in the closet bin. The second one. Behind the label maker.”

He blinks. “You labeled your label maker?”

She presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I’m losing my mind.”

JJ puts the turtle mobile down and stands up, walking over slowly. “Babe.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says, already fighting tears. “I just want everything to be ready and it’s not, and I can’t even find the burp cloths, and I have a baby shower in three hours and I’m leaking from everything and I swear I just saw one of my ankles give up and disappear—”

JJ pulls her into a hug before she can spiral any further.

Her face presses into his chest. Her hands ball up in his shirt.

He kisses the top of her head. “You’ve done so much. You made this house a home. You made me better. You made a whole human, Sarah. A missing burp cloth isn’t gonna ruin any of that.”

She sniffs against his collar. “I love you. Even though you put the muslin swaddles with the microfiber ones like a monster.”

He grins. “My bad.”

He helps her sit on the edge of the bed, rubs her lower back until she melts into the mattress, and promises to reorganize everything while she rests for ten minutes.

She’s asleep before he finishes his first drawer.

After her nap, Sarah stands in the middle of the nursery, arms crossed under her belly, lips pressed into a tight line.

JJ leans in the doorway, watching her scan the room like she’s trying to spot a fire.

“You okay?” he asks.

She exhales. “No.”

He straightens a little. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just waves one hand vaguely at the space. The crib. The mobile. The soft gray walls. The dolphin plush on the shelf.

“It doesn’t feel done,” she finally says.

JJ walks in, careful not to bump the tiny bookshelf she rearranged three times already.

“Babe, it looks amazing. You built a whole vibe in here.”

“But what if it’s wrong?” she says, spinning to face him. “What if we should’ve picked blue? Or yellow? Or something more colorful? What if it’s too boring, or not soft enough, or—what if the baby hates it?”

JJ blinks. “You think our baby is gonna come out with design critiques?”

Sarah glares. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” He steps closer. “And I love that about you. But you’ve gotta breathe.”

She does not breathe.

She points to the dresser. “The clothes are all neutral. Everything’s beige or green or oatmeal or whatever. What if they grow up and think we didn’t care? That we didn’t know them?”

JJ puts his hands on her shoulders. “They’re not even born yet.”

“I know, but—”

“And you’re already trying to give them a space where they’ll feel safe. That’s what matters.”

She chews her lip. “It just feels so hard to plan anything without knowing.”

“Yeah,” JJ says, gently pulling her into his chest. “But we made that choice. Remember? You said you didn’t want to start seeing the world in pink or blue. You wanted to meet them first.”

She nods into his shirt. “I still feel like I’m doing it wrong.”

“You’re not.”

“I cry every time I fold a onesie.”

“That’s just good taste.”

She laughs a little.

JJ presses a kiss into her hair.

“You’re not failing, Sarah. You’re nesting. You’re emotional. You’re tired. And you’re trying to love this kid before you even know their name.”

He pulls back just enough to look at her.

“I think they’re gonna love this room. And if they don’t, we’ll repaint it in glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs or glitter or whatever the hell they want.”

Sarah sniffles. “What if they want sharks?”

He grins. “Then they’re mine.”

Sarah waddles in the back door of The Wreck and stops dead in her tracks.

“…What the hell?”

The restaurant has been transformed. There are decorations everywhere—and none of them match.

JJ’s section has shark balloons, little fins sticking out of blue cupcake frosting, and a banner that says “SHARK BAIT OOH HAHA”.

Kiara’s brought turtle streamers and paper lanterns shaped like sea turtles. There’s a “Slow and Steady Wins the Race” sign over the dessert table.

Pope has filled one corner with dolphin pool floats and a poster that says “Flip for Baby!”

John B is stringing up a surfboard mobile over the drinks table and wearing a shirt that says Born to Shred, Forced to Parent.

And Cleo—God bless her—is surrounded by plastic leis, sand pails, a tiny blow-up palm tree, and a banner that reads: Aloha, Baby!

Sarah turns to JJ, who’s standing proudly beside his shark-themed table with a “Dad-to-Be” sash hanging crooked across his chest.

“Did I… miss a memo?”

He shrugs. “I thought it was sharks.”

“JJ, there’s a dolphin next to a surfboard next to a paper turtle.”

Cleo walks by and tosses a lei around Sarah’s neck. “The theme is ‘ocean,’ babe. But make it chaotic.”

The Pogues yell “SURPRISE!” at least two beats too late.

Sarah laughs so hard she almost pees herself.

JJ catches her elbow. “Don’t do that. We’re in public.”

She grins up at him. “You’re wearing a sash that says Dad-to-Be. I think we passed the ‘dignified’ mark a while ago.”

The sun is low outside the windows, turning everything inside The Wreck golden. Balloons sway under the ceiling fans. Turtle streamers crisscross above a surfboard-shaped snack table. JJ’s “Dad-to-Be” sash is slipping off his shoulder and he keeps trying to discreetly fix it, like it’s somehow compromising his street cred.

It is. But Sarah loves it anyway.

Pope claps his hands together. “Alright, degenerates! First game: Guess That Baby Food!”

He dramatically pulls a towel off a tray of six unlabeled jars, each with its own tiny spoon. “The rules are simple. You taste, you guess. Winner gets bragging rights and an upset stomach.”

JJ stares. “They look like expired hummus.”

Cleo’s already digging in. She tastes one, makes a face, and says, “That’s cardboard.”

John B goes next, gagging immediately. “Nope. That one’s just… betrayal in a jar.”

Pope hands one to JJ with a smirk. “C’mon, Dad-to-Be. Show us your palate.”

JJ narrows his eyes. “I swear to God if this is mashed liver—”

He takes a bite.

And immediately gags.

“What in the holy hell was that?!” he sputters.

Sarah’s doubled over with laughter.

Pope checks the answer card. “Creamed peas.”

JJ wipes his mouth and mutters, “This baby better come out with a mature taste for pizza.”

After the games wind down and everyone’s a little buzzed on lemonade and sugar, Kiara claps her hands.

“Alright, bitches. Present time!”

JJ immediately looks nervous. “Is this where I cry or say thank you a lot?”

Sarah smirks. “Yes.”

Cleo goes first.

She hands over a gift bag that’s already half ripped and covered in stickers that say “Caution: Poguelet Incoming.”

Inside is a tiny denim jacket with rhinestones and the word “Maybank” on the back, baby-sized sunglasses, and a pacifier that glows in the dark and says “POGUE LIFE” on it.

Sarah is wheezing. JJ mutters, “Our kid’s gonna be the most feared toddler on the island.”

Pope wheels up a three-tiered diaper cake—perfectly stacked, wrapped in neutral ribbon, with tiny baby toiletries tucked between the layers.

“Don’t even pretend this isn’t the most useful thing here,” he says proudly.

JJ stares. “You made this?”

“I watched six YouTube videos and followed a mom blog. Don’t look at me like that.”

There’s also a first-aid kit, a manual breast pump (“I panicked and grabbed everything in aisle seven”), and a baby thermometer shaped like a dolphin.

Sarah beams. “You’re gonna be the godfather, aren’t you?”

Pope immediately panics. “Wait—am I?!”

John B walks over with a shoebox.

Sarah opens it to find a tiny wetsuit, a baby rash guard, and a personalized bib that says BORN TO SURF, FORCED TO NAP.

“This is for, like, six months from now,” he explains. “But you gotta get ‘em started early.”

JJ holds up the wetsuit and whistles. “Damn. Baby’s gonna be shreddin’ waves before they can walk.”

Kiara goes last.

She hands Sarah a wrapped box with way too much tape.

Once she finally manages to get the thing open, she starts pulling everything out.

A photo album with the first ultrasound already taped inside.

Blank pages labeled “First Step,” “First Word,” “First Time JJ Lets Me Babysit Alone”.

A onesie that says I Get My Sass from Aunt Kie.

Sarah’s crying before she even finishes seeing it all.

“I thought maybe you’d wanna keep it all in one place,” Kiara mumbles.

JJ chimes in. “You know she’s gonna fill that whole thing out in, like, a week.”

Sarah’s wiping her eyes.

“You guys. Thank you so much.”

Pope and Cleo grin, conspiratorially.

“We’re not done, pretty girl,” Cleo winks at her.

They pull back a curtain to reveal a wooden rocking chair—simple, handmade-looking, and painted soft seafoam green.

“We found it at a secondhand shop,” Cleo says. “Pope sanded it, I made it cute.”

Sarah walks over slowly, hand on her belly, and runs her fingers over the armrest.

JJ’s already picturing her sitting there in the nursery, baby on her chest, the house quiet and full.

He blinks a few times. A lot.

Sarah turns to all of them, voice thick with emotion.

“Okay,” she says, “I don’t even know what to say.”

JJ wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Say you’ll let me try on that bib from John B first.”

Kiara stands on a chair, holding a small sand-colored wooden box with white painted waves around the edges.

“Last thing for tonight,” she says, a little quieter now. “It’s kinda cheesy. But also kinda important.”

She hands out notecards and pens.

“I want you all to write something for the baby. A wish. Something you hope they’ll carry with them.”

JJ glances at Sarah. She’s already staring down at her card, pen pressed to her lips, expression soft.

The room quiets.

Even Pope’s joking fades.

They all write.

Cleo finishes first, slipping hers into the box.

I hope you’re loud. And brave. And weird. And that your mom lets me teach you to cuss creatively.

Pope folds his carefully.

I hope you always have people who show up for you. Even when you screw up.

John B clears his throat before handing his over.

I hope you never go looking for treasure that isn’t already in front of you.

Kiara’s eyes are glassy.

I hope you never doubt that you’re wanted. Ever.

Sarah folds hers slowly. Doesn’t read it out loud.

Neither does JJ.

But he lingers over it, pen hovering, before writing one simple sentence.

I hope you grow up with everything I didn’t.

They tuck them all into the little box. Kiara clasps the lid shut.

Sarah reaches for JJ’s hand. He laces their fingers without hesitation.

“I hope they grow up around this,” she whispers.

He looks at her. “This?”

She nods, smiling through tears. “Chaos. Love. All of it.”

He squeezes her hand.

“They will.”

The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of gold and lavender across the sky. The porch lights at The Wreck flicker on with a hum. Everyone’s laughing softly, full of cupcakes and joy, the kind that only comes when you’re surrounded by people who really, really love you.

JJ’s in the parking lot, loading the final baby gifts into the back of Sarah’s SUV.

Sarah’s sitting on the passenger seat with her feet up on the dash, sipping the last of her lemonade and smiling like her whole chest is full of light.

Kiara steps outside with John B, their fingers loosely laced together. They walk past the SUV, bumping shoulders, whispering something only they can hear.

JJ watches them with a quiet kind of peace.

Things aren’t perfect.

But somehow, they’re better than they were.

Pope and Cleo come out last, balancing the diaper cake between them like it’s a sacred artifact.

“These are actual diapers, Maybank. Try not to eat it in your sleep,” Cleo winks.

“No promises,” JJ laughs.

They all gather by the cars for a minute—no rush, no pressure.

Just Pogues.

Sarah slides out of the car and stands beside JJ, her belly pressing into his side. He immediately wraps his arm around her.

“Thank you,” she says, looking around at all of them. “This was… everything.”

Kiara leans in for a quick hug. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Same thing.”

John B salutes them with a half-eaten cupcake. “You guys get some rest. Next time we see you, there might be a baby.”

JJ looks at Sarah. Then at the car packed full of love and chaos and onesies.

“We’re ready,” he says quietly.

And for once, he really believes it.

They go to the beach just before sunset.

Sarah’s almost forty weeks and glowing in that way she hates people saying out loud, but it’s true. JJ can’t stop staring. She’s in a white off-the-shoulder dress, barefoot, one hand resting over her belly like she’s always protecting something precious.

JJ’s rolled his sleeves up. Hair messy. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Cleo keeps shouting at him to stop squinting like a lost pirate.

She’s behind the camera, bossy and emotional.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Cleo mutters, snapping shots as Sarah laughs and JJ spins her in the sand.

Sarah grins. “You cried when I walked out of the car.”

“I didn’t cry. I misted.”

JJ leans into Sarah, arms wrapped around her from behind. His hands cradle her belly like he’s already holding the future.

Cleo lifts the camera again.

“Don’t move.”

Click.

“Okay now, walk toward the water. Hold hands. Look like you’re madly in love.”

“We are madly in love,” JJ says.

“Yeah, well. Act like it,” Cleo teases. “I want the drama.”

Later, Sarah kneels in the sand, waves lapping around her. The light is golden, everything soft-focus and sun-soaked. She’s wearing JJ’s button-down over her bikini, one hand on her stomach.

JJ watches her, completely gone.

Cleo’s quiet now.

She lifts the camera slowly. Click. Click.

“This baby,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “has no idea how loved they already are.”

And tucked into the frame of the last photo, buried between seashells and sand?

A strip of sonogram pictures.

Waves reaching toward them like they already know.

That night, Sarah props her phone against her knee, flipping through the photos Cleo air-dropped them the minute she got home.

They sit side by side on the couch, Sarah propped up by too many throw pillows and a heating pad on her back.

JJ rests his chin on her shoulder, eyes wide.

“Wait—go back. That one.”

She swipes.

It’s the shot of them walking toward the ocean, holding hands. Her dress caught in the wind. His curls tousled from her fingers. Their silhouettes just slightly blurred, like a dream.

JJ exhales. “We look like we know what we’re doing.”

Sarah laughs. “We don’t.”

He kisses her shoulder. “Yeah, but damn, we fake it well.”

She scrolls again.

The sonogram in the sand.

JJ stills beside her.

“Cleo’s got a good eye,” he says quietly.

Sarah glances at him. “You okay?”

He nods. “I just—” He swallows. “We look happy.”

She turns the screen so it faces him fully.

“We are happy.”

He leans in, presses his lips to her temple, his hand resting over her belly. The baby shifts beneath his palm.

Sarah tucks herself closer to him. “She’s going to love these someday.”

JJ’s eyes flick to her.

“You said she.”

Sarah freezes.

Then smiles. “I guess I did. I don’t know. I have a feeling. Maybe it’s mom intuition. Maybe it’s nothing.”

JJ looks back at the screen. At the light. The sea. The future in her hands.

“Whoever they are,” he murmurs, “they’re going to know love like it’s the only thing they ever needed.”

Sarah kisses him.

And JJ lets it sink in.

The bedroom is quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the occasional rustle of pages turning. JJ is sitting up against the headboard with one leg stretched out and the other bent, a half-finished beer balanced on his knee.

Sarah is curled up beside him, belly round under one of his old shirts, sipping iced tea from a mason jar and using his thigh as a pillow.

JJ flips another page in the thrifted baby name book he found earlier that day. The cover is peeling. Someone wrote “NO” next to a few of the names in pen.

“Alright,” he says. “We’re thirty-nine weeks in and still referring to our child as ‘the shrimp.’ I feel like that’s bad parenting.”

Sarah snorts. “You called them Sharkbait for six months.”

“Sharkbait had power, babe. Sharkbait had bite.”

She reaches over and flicks the book. “Keep reading, Hemingway.”

JJ flips another page in the thrifted baby name book, frowning in concentration like he’s searching a treasure map.

“Okay,” he says, tapping the page. “For a boy. What about Chandler?”

Sarah lifts her head a little. “As in… Bing?”

JJ smirks. “I mean—yes. But also no.”

He clears his throat dramatically and reads from the book in his best mock-serious voice.

“‘Chandler: a candle maker. One who brings light. Associated with illumination, hope, and warmth.’”

He glances at her. “Kind of… beautiful, right?”

Sarah tilts her head. “It is.”

JJ runs a thumb along the edge of the page. “I like the idea that they’d be someone who brings light into dark places. Like… they show up and things feel clearer. Safer.”

He swallows. “Like you do.”

Sarah blinks up at him, caught off guard.

He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “You were my light, Sarah. Still are. I guess it’d be cool if the baby had a name that reminded me of that.”

Sarah rests a hand over his heart, her voice soft. “You’re that for me too, you know. You’re my lighthouse in a dark ocean, some days.”

JJ huffs out a breath, blinking like he’s trying not to cry. “Okay, rude. You can’t say something like that while I’m holding a beer.”

She laughs gently and tucks her head back under his chin.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “What else? Any girl names in there?”

JJ flips a few pages. “Larissa.”

He reads slower this time.

“‘Sea bird. One who watches the horizon. A symbol of freedom and perspective.’”

Sarah is quiet.

JJ continues, voice lower. “It says in Greek mythology, Larissa was tied to the sea. Always looking outward. Like she knew there was something bigger waiting for her.”

Sarah presses a hand to her belly. The baby shifts, like they’re listening.

“That’s kinda perfect,” she whispers.

JJ nods. “Yeah. Sea bird. That’s you. That’s me, too.”

He looks at her again.

“Chandler. Larissa. Light or flight. Flame or sky.”

Sarah smiles, eyes misty. “Either way… they’ll be brave.”

JJ nods, voice thick. “They’ll be ours.”

They sit there for a while, soft music playing in the background, baby name book between them, the weight of their future pressing gently into Sarah’s spine.

“I like both,” she says eventually. “Larissa. Chandler.”

JJ leans his head against hers. “So we’re just gonna go into the hospital with two names and decide when they come out?”

“Like normal, chaotic people,” she agrees.

He smiles. “Cool. I love that for us.”

Sarah looks up at him, eyes warm.

“I love you.”

JJ kisses her, slow and sweet. “Love you too, mama bird.”

Sarah giggles. “If I’m a bird, you’re a bird,” she misquotes, poking him in the ribs.

JJ groans dramatically. “Babe. You’ve watched The Notebook thirty-seven times.”

She grins. “And?”

“I’m staging an intervention.”

He pauses.

Then sighs. “Fine. I’m a bird.”

Sarah melts.

JJ smirks. “But only if I get to be, like, a cool falcon or something.”

The fan hums low in the dark, blades slicing lazy circles overhead.

The room is warm. Still. A little too quiet.

Sarah’s eyes flutter open.

Something feels… off.

Not pain, exactly. More like pressure. Deep and low. She shifts under the blankets, trying to get comfortable—but the tightness in her belly pulses again, sharper this time.

She exhales slowly.

Not panic. Not yet.

Just… awareness.

She glances at the clock.

3:17 A.M.

Of course.

JJ is dead asleep beside her, sprawled across the mattress with one arm thrown over her belly like he’s guarding treasure. His mouth is slightly open. His breathing deep.

Sarah nudges him gently.

Nothing.

She nudges again.

“JJ.”

Still nothing.

She winces through another wave of cramping and mutters, “Maybank, I swear to God—”

He jolts upright.

“What? What? Are you okay? Who’s dead?”

Sarah grips his wrist. “No one’s dead. But you might be soon."

JJ squints at her in the dark. “Why are you awake?”

She gives him a look. “Because I think it’s happening.”

JJ blinks.

Then blinks again.

“It it?”

Sarah nods.

“Like… it IT?”

Another nod.

JJ’s entire body goes rigid. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Okay. Okay—uh—what do we do?”

Sarah sits up slowly, breathing through another contraction. “We stay calm. We time the contractions. And you stop yelling.”

JJ fumbles for his phone. “Okay, right, timing. We can do that. Easy. I’ll just open the—wait where’s the app? Did I delete the app?!”

She groans. “JJ—”

“I panicked! I was clearing storage and it had a pink icon!”

He’s already out of bed, barefoot and shirtless, scrambling around the room like a raccoon in a laundry basket.

Sarah watches him with a tired kind of fondness.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she says, already standing. “And then we’ll go.”

JJ freezes mid-duffel bag grab. “You’re in labor and you want a shower?”

She shrugs. “I’m not having a baby with greasy hair.”

JJ points at her, wide-eyed. “This is why I love you.”

They pull up to the hospital just after 4 a.m.

JJ parks like he’s in a heist movie—crooked, tires squealing slightly, hazards on.

Sarah is gripping the door handle.

He jumps out, races around to her side, and opens the door like he’s just delivered her to a red carpet.

“Okay,” he pants. “Okay, we’re here. You’re good. We’re good.”

Sarah groans. “Did you feed the meter?”

JJ blinks. “What?”

She points weakly at the little blinking box. “The meter, JJ. Unless you want a ticket and a baby.”

He makes a strangled sound and sprints to shove coins into it.

By the time he returns, she’s out of the car, leaning against it, breathing deep.

“Okay,” he says, holding the duffel bag, the hospital paperwork, and—somehow—the dolphin plushie. “Let’s do this.”

Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright. The walls are too white. JJ hates it already.

The nurse at the desk barely looks up.

“Name?”

Sarah: “Sarah Cameron.”

JJ: “And Maybank. JJ. And the baby. We picked out names but we don’t know the gender yet so we’re still deciding.”

The nurse just raises an eyebrow. “Right. First time?”

JJ nods.

The nurse hands them a clipboard.

Sarah doubles over beside him with another contraction.

JJ panics. “Okay no, we’re past clipboard, we’re past forms—she’s in pain! We didn’t do the Lamaze classes, I downloaded the app and deleted it, and I haven’t practiced any of the breathing—do I need to do something else? I feel like I should be more helpful.”

The nurse presses a button. “Room six. Let’s go.”

The next twenty minutes are a blur.

A gown. Monitors. A heartbeat.

JJ tries to keep up—bags tossed in a corner, water cup filled and refilled, his legs bouncing so hard the bed shakes.

Sarah starts off strong.

But then the contractions get closer. And sharper. And she can’t breathe through them anymore.

She grips his hand, hard. “JJ.”

He’s by her side instantly. “I’m here.”

“I want the epidural.”

He nods fast. “Okay. Yes. You got it.”

“I need it, JJ. I can’t—” her voice cracks, and she’s crying now, curled in on herself, breathing fast and panicked.

JJ feels something twist in his chest. Helplessness. Terror.

He pulls her hand to his mouth and kisses it.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

She blinks up at him through tears.

“We’re going to have our little Larissa or Chandler here soon, remember? Our sea bird. Our light. The kind of soul who flies above the storm and still knows how to guide people home—like a lighthouse with wings.”

Sarah stares at him, wide-eyed through her tears.

“Did you just recite poetry to me during a contraction?”

JJ shrugs, brushing her hair off her damp forehead. “Guess I panic beautifully.”

She lets out a broken little laugh, still clutching his hand like a lifeline.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you more,” he says, voice raw. “You’re doing so good. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. I swear to God, babe. They’re almost here. You’re so close.”

Another contraction hits.

She squeezes his hand like she’s trying to crawl inside him, tears falling freely now.

JJ presses his forehead to hers.

“Sea bird or light,” he whispers, eyes shut. “Either way… we’re gonna love them so good.”

A few more contractions hit hard and fast.

Sarah stops talking through them. Stops breathing evenly. She’s gripping the bedrail now, curled on her side, tears streaking silently down her cheeks.

JJ hasn’t sat down in thirty minutes.

He hasn’t let go of her hand in forty-five.

And when the nurse finally says, “The anesthesiologist is on their way,” Sarah actually whimpers in relief.

Ten minutes later, a woman in blue scrubs walks in like a guardian angel.

“Hi, Sarah. I’m Dr. Martinez—I hear you’ve been waiting for me.”

Sarah, mid-contraction, gasps, “You’re my favorite person in the entire world.”

The doctor smiles like she’s heard it a hundred times before. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

JJ steps back just long enough to let them work, pacing the corner like a caged animal while Sarah curls forward, breathing ragged. The nurse holds her shoulders. Dr. Martinez works fast, calm, efficient.

One minute. Two.

A few deep breaths.

And then—

It’s like the tension melts out of Sarah’s entire body.

She exhales slowly, blinking up at JJ with hazy, grateful eyes.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “I love science. And needles. And that woman. I think I’m gonna cry.”

JJ is already crying a little. “Too late.”

He slides back into the chair beside her and rests his forehead against her shoulder, hand still wrapped in hers.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

She nods, a little dazed. “I think I can finally breathe.”

JJ leans in and kisses her temple. “Good. You deserve to.”

The nurse checks her again. “You’re eight centimeters. It’s almost time.”

Sarah turns to JJ, calmer now but wide-eyed. “We’re really doing this.”

JJ smiles, voice thick. “We already are.”

The nurse’s voice is calm but firm. “We’re ready for you, Sarah.”

The room shifts.

JJ feels it in his chest—the weight of the moment. The gravity. And the wonder.

Sarah is quiet now, bundled in warm blankets, her hand curled around his as they roll her bed down the hallway. Her other hand rests on her belly, rubbing gentle circles. Like she’s telling the baby: almost there, little one. I’ve got you.

They pass through the swinging double doors into the delivery room, and everything changes.

The lights are brighter.

The machines louder.

There’s a table of sterile tools, a monitor chirping steadily, a bassinet waiting in the corner like it already knows what’s coming.

JJ gets pulled aside by a nurse and handed what can only be described as a hospital hazmat cosplay starter pack.

Scrubs. Booties. A gown. A surgical hairnet.

“Suit up, dad,” she says with a wink.

JJ fumbles into it while still trying to hold Sarah’s hand. “I look like a marshmallow with anxiety.”

Sarah manages a small smile. “You look perfect.”

They help her shift into position.

JJ moves to her side, gloved hand slipping into hers, his thumb rubbing circles against her knuckles. His breath is shaky. His whole body is.

But he stays close.

So close.

The doctor appears at the foot of the bed. “Okay, Sarah. You’re at ten. It’s time.”

JJ squeezes her hand.

“You ready, mama bird?”

Sarah turns her head, sweat beading on her forehead, eyes glassy but focused.

“Only if you’re flying with me.”

JJ leans down, forehead pressed to hers.

“Always.”

“Alright,” the doctor says. “On your next contraction—push.”

The delivery room blurs around her.

Bright lights. Voices. The steady beeping of the monitor. The cool wipe of a damp cloth on her forehead.

But all Sarah hears is JJ’s voice.

Right beside her.

Low and steady and shaking.

“You’re doing so good, baby. You’ve got this. Just breathe. Just one more.”

She’s sweating. Crying. Her legs are shaking. Every muscle in her body is on fire.

“I can’t—”

JJ cups her face. “Yes you can. You already are.”

The doctor’s voice cuts through the haze. “Okay, Sarah. One more big push, okay? Let’s meet your baby.”

JJ kisses her forehead. His lips linger. She can feel the tremble in him.

“Larissa’s right there,” he whispers. “Our sea bird. Just one more storm, and she’s in your arms.”

She doesn’t say anything. She feels it.

Her baby daughter. In her heart and in her lungs and in her womb.

Sarah grips his hand and pushes.

Everything stretches.

Burns.

Breaks open.

And then—

The pressure shifts.

The weight lifts.

A new sound slices through the air:

Her cry.

Sharp. Raw. Alive.

JJ’s hand flies to his mouth.

He gasps—actually gasps—like someone punched the air from his lungs.

“Oh my God.”

The nurse announces it like a miracle. “It’s a girl.”

Sarah collapses back against the bed, tears spilling freely now, and JJ is still standing there, frozen.

Staring at the tiny, red, wailing, perfect human the nurse is wrapping up in a towel.

“Do you want to cut the cord, dad?”

JJ stumbles forward like he’s in a dream. His hands shake, but he manages the scissors. The snip feels louder than it should.

He turns back to Sarah.

And the nurse places Larissa against her chest.

Sarah lets out a sob the second she feels her daughter’s weight.

“She’s here,” she whispers. “JJ. She’s here.”

JJ leans over them, cradling both of them with his arms, forehead pressed to Sarah’s.

“Hi, Larissa,” he says, voice cracking. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

The baby’s cry settles.

Softens.

And Sarah swears she feels her daughter recognize them.

JJ brushes a trembling kiss to Sarah’s temple.

“You did it, mama bird,” he whispers. “You flew her home.”

It’s quiet now.

The kind of quiet that feels sacred.

The nurses have left. The monitors beep softly in the background. Sarah is asleep in the hospital bed, her hand still resting gently on the edge of the bassinet.

Mid-morning light spills through the window, golden and slow.

And in the armchair by the bed, wrapped in a flannel blanket and his old hoodie—

JJ holds his daughter.

Larissa Maybank.

Seven pounds, three ounces. A little bit of blonde fuzz on her head. A nose that looks suspiciously like Sarah’s.

She blinks up at him, eyes squinty and unfocused, lips parted like she’s already about to sass him.

JJ can’t stop staring.

He’s got one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped around her tiny body like he’s scared she’ll float away.

He leans down, presses his lips to her forehead.

“Hi,” he whispers. “I’m your dad.”

His voice cracks.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

He brushes his thumb across her cheek and breathes her in.

“You’re gonna be strong. And funny. And probably smarter than me.”

He smiles through tears.

“You’re gonna know how to fight. But I promise, you won’t have to.”

He looks at her—really looks.

“You don’t have to survive the way I did. You get to live.”

She coos softly, a little fluttering sigh in her throat.

JJ lets out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to hers.

“I don’t know how to be a dad. But I’m gonna learn. For you.”

He looks over at Sarah, sleeping peacefully, curled beneath white sheets.

“And for her.”

He holds Larissa tighter.

Sunlight hits her blanket like a halo.

And JJ Maybank—fighter, Pogue, survivor—lets the weight of his love break him open.

It’s early afternoon.

JJ’s curled in the hospital bed with Sarah and Larissa, her tiny body nestled between them, skin warm and soft against his chest. Sarah’s half-asleep, hand resting over his, their daughter cradled between their palms like something sacred.

The knock on the door is soft.

Then the door creaks open.

“Tell me I’m not too late to meet my niece,” Kiara whispers, slipping inside with a bouquet of slightly wilted wildflowers in one hand and a teddy bear in the other.

JJ grins. “You’re late, but forgiven.”

Pope follows her, wide-eyed and silent until he sees the baby.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “She’s real.”

John B’s right behind him, carrying a Starbucks tray and a balloon that says “Welcome, Little Pogue!” in loopy handwriting that is definitely Cleo’s.

Speaking of—

“Move, I wanna see the tiny miracle,” Cleo says, shoving the boys aside. She steps up to the bed and gasps. “Ohhh, she’s got your nose, rude boy. Tragic.”

JJ flips her off gently with one hand. “She’s perfect.”

Wheezie’s next—hovering by the door with wide, star-struck eyes.

“She’s so… little,” she whispers. “Like… bird-sized.”

Sarah smiles. “That’s what JJ’s been calling me. Mama bird.”

Wheezie melts. Rose, standing awkwardly behind her, clears her throat.

“She’s beautiful,” Rose says. “Truly.”

It’s tentative. Careful. Like a branch held out over icy water.

Sarah nods. “Thanks.”

The Pogues linger around the hospital room, taking turns holding Larissa like she’s made of spun sugar and starlight.

Pope is the most careful, both hands locked under her like he’s handling a priceless artifact. John B tries to hide how misty his eyes are. Cleo talks to Larissa like she’s already her best friend. Kiara sits next to Sarah on the bed, her head on her shoulder, whispering something soft about how strong she is.

And then Rose clears her throat.

“There’s… one more person here.”

Everyone turns.

“He’s in the hallway,” she says. “Didn’t want to come in unless it was okay.”

Sarah stiffens just slightly. JJ looks at her.

She nods once.

Rose steps out.

A few seconds later, the door opens again.

Rafe enters.

Slow. Cautious. Clean-shaven, pressed shirt, and holding something small and silver in both hands.

A rattle.

Classic. Simple. Expensive.

Kiara narrows her eyes immediately. Her arm shoots out like she’s ready to throw herself in front of Sarah.

But Rafe doesn’t look at her.

He’s looking at the bassinet.

At the baby.

He takes one step closer, then another. His mouth opens like he’s going to speak—but nothing comes out.

His eyes are wide.

Unblinking.

And when he finally sees her—really sees her—something in him breaks open.

Like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time.

Like maybe he didn’t believe she was real until now.

Sarah watches him. Sees his knuckles go white around the rattle.

Sees the way he sways, just a little.

JJ stands beside her, steady.

“You can come closer,” Sarah says softly.

Rafe looks at her.

Then takes one more step.

Just one.

And that’s enough.

Because they all see it.

The tremble in his hands.

The awe in his face.

The way his gaze softens, like this tiny girl in a blanket just rewrote the worst parts of him.

Kiara still doesn’t trust him.

JJ still doesn’t say a word.

But no one tells him to leave.

And in that fragile, golden moment—they all know:

Everything is going to be okay.

The visitors are gone.

The sun has dipped behind the hospital blinds, casting the room in soft blue shadows. The overhead light is dimmed. The only sound is Larissa’s breath—gentle and rhythmic—in the bassinet beside the bed.

JJ is on the little pull-out cot, shirt half-buttoned, hospital blanket thrown over his legs. He’s watching Sarah.

She’s curled toward the bassinet, half-asleep, hair in a mess, glowing anyway.

JJ could stare forever.

“Hey,” she whispers, not opening her eyes. “You still awake?”

“Yeah.”

She shifts slightly, just enough to reach for his hand.

“I was thinking,” she murmurs, “about your dad.”

JJ goes still.

“I mean, do you… want him to know?”

JJ is quiet for a long time.

Sarah’s voice is careful. “Or… are you sad he’s not here?”

JJ exhales. Slow. Controlled.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I think a part of me used to imagine it. Him showing up. Trying. Holding her and maybe… getting it. Just for a second.”

He pauses.

“But he’s not here. He probably made it to the Yucatán or got busted running something dumb through Florida. I haven’t seen him in months.”

Sarah waits.

JJ turns his head, looking at Larissa’s sleeping form.

“I don’t think I’m sad,” he says. “I think I’m free.”

Sarah blinks, eyes shining.

JJ’s voice is soft. Sure.

“I don’t need him here to prove I’m not him.”

Silence settles between them, warm and whole.

Then JJ adds, a little lighter, “Besides. You really think I’m letting that man hold the most perfect human being on Earth? Hell no.”

Sarah laughs, tears slipping sideways down her cheek.

JJ shifts, slipping out of the cot, and kneels beside her at the bed.

He reaches into the bassinet and gently lifts Larissa out, cradling her like he’s done it a thousand times already.

Then he settles beside Sarah, placing their daughter between them.

Tiny. Safe. Home.

“You broke the cycle,” Sarah whispers.

JJ presses his lips to Larissa’s forehead.

“No,” he says. “We did.”

The sun creeps in slow, spilling gold across the linoleum floor.

Sarah’s asleep again, curled beneath a hospital blanket, one hand still resting protectively over her belly like her body hasn’t quite adjusted to being empty yet.

JJ stands by the window.

He’s got Larissa cradled against his bare chest, hospital-approved skin-to-skin, one hand supporting her head and the other splayed over her back.

She’s breathing quietly. Eyes shut. Trusting.

And JJ?

He’s humming.

Something soft. Wordless. Familiar only to them.

His lips brush the crown of her head.

“You’re safe now, sea bird,” he murmurs. “We’re taking you home.”

The nurse wheels Sarah out in a chair. JJ walks beside her with the hospital bag slung over one shoulder and Larissa in his arms—swaddled like a tiny burrito, face barely peeking out.

When they get to the car, JJ freezes.

He stares at the car seat like it’s a ticking bomb.

“Do we… I mean… how does this even…”

Sarah groans. “JJ, we practiced this.”

He mutters something that sounds like “demonic plastic harness of death.”

After ten minutes of struggling, swearing, Googling, and asking the nurse to check it three times, Larissa is finally secured.

JJ slides into the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Sarah buckles in with a wince. “You good?”

He nods. “Yeah. Totally.”

He drives exactly 5 miles under the speed limit the whole way home.

He carries Larissa inside like she’s made of crystal.

Sarah follows slowly, still sore, still smiling.

The house smells like laundry detergent and faint lemon cleaner. The morning light spills across the hardwood like a welcome mat.

JJ walks through the living room. Past the couch. Down the hall.

And into the nursery.

The crib is ready.

The mobile sways gently.

JJ steps into the room and stops.

Sarah moves beside him, one hand on his back, the other hovering just above their daughter’s head.

“This is it,” she whispers.

JJ swallows hard.

“This is home.”

He leans down, kisses Larissa’s forehead.

“Welcome, baby girl.”

And then he lays her in her crib.

Their daughter.

Their light.

Their beginning.

The house is quiet.

Sarah’s still asleep in their bed. The light has shifted—early afternoon now, warm and golden, stretching long across the nursery floor.

JJ sits in the rocking chair, slowly swaying back and forth.

Larissa is in his arms.

Tucked close to his chest, her head nestled into the crook of his neck, her tiny fist curled in the fabric of his hoodie like she’s anchoring herself to the heartbeat beneath it.

He rocks her gently.

Steady. Safe.

And speaks just loud enough for her to hear.

“This started with grief,” he murmurs. “One man died. Another ran. And I thought… maybe that was all there’d ever be. Loss. Fear. Trying to outrun it.”

Larissa sighs in her sleep.

JJ presses a kiss to the side of her head.

“But then… she let me hold her. Just once. I thought I was offering comfort. I didn’t know I was grabbing onto the rest of my life.”

He looks down at his daughter.

His sea bird.

His light.

“You don’t have to forget the past,” he whispers. “You’ll grow up with it behind you, not on top of you. And I swear, Larissa, you’ll never have to guess how loved you are.”

He rocks a little slower.

Breathes a little deeper.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be a dad,” he adds softly. “But holding you? Feels like maybe I was always meant to be.”

There’s a creak in the doorway.

JJ doesn’t turn his head.

He knows it’s her.

Sarah stands in the frame, arms wrapped around herself, hair tousled from sleep. Her eyes are soft. Full.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

Because this?

This is everything.

They were born from the wreckage.

JJ, the boy no one believed in.

Sarah, the girl who never felt truly safe.

Grief lived in their bones.

Loss stitched into every memory.

Trauma, a shadow they both learned to outrun.

But somehow—

They found each other in the fallout.

Held each other through the unraveling.

Built something new in the cracks.

And now?

Now they are here.

Two survivors.

One daughter.

A home made from everything they were told they’d never have.

The past no longer holds them.

Love does.

Larissa yawns.

Opens her eyes.

And in that quiet, perfect moment—

the sea bird sees the light across the ocean,

the horizon waiting just beyond it,

her future unfolding like the waves beneath the sky.

And knows she is home.