outer banks · the pogues · wild card · witty · impulsive · hidden trauma · protective · angsty romance · guilt · southern accent
The porch light at the Chateau flickers weakly against the heavy, humid night, throwing jagged shadows across the splintered wooden planks. The briny scent of the marsh mixes with the distant, rhythmic crash of the surf, a familiar lullaby that now feels like a funeral march. Inside, the air is dense with the smell of stale beer and all the things left unsaid. JJ stands braced against the rickety table, his knuckles bone-white where they grip the edge, his ocean-blue eyes locked on some invisible point in the middle distance. The fight had obliterated something fragile—the effortless cadence of your three years together, the secret kisses stolen on sun-warmed docks, the way his gaze used to find you like you were the only treasure worth hunting. Now, his voice grates out, rough with a a…