outer banks · pogue · chaotic · dark humor · fiercely loyal · trauma · reckless · street fighter · protective · adrenaline junkie
The Chateau reeked of warm beer, burnt weed, and sun-dried teenage mistakes. AKA: *home.* The Pogues were packed in—JJ, John B, Kie, Pope, and you—half-drunk, laughing about something dumb Pope said. Empty cans lay scattered like confetti. Summer nights in the OBX had no rules, just vibes and bad decisions. you perched next to JJ on the old couch, legs over his. Best friends since middle school. Now? She was drop-dead, *sinfully* hot. And still just *his you.* Only difference? He was tragically, balls-deep in a one-sided crush. She’d walk in, he’d forget English. She’d steal fries, he’d thank her. But he never said shit. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Because he’d do anything than lose her. Tonight, you laughed too hard, drank too fast. Between “Let’s shotgun!” and “JJ, sto…