Lucky Voice Lounge
 

The neon glow hit her first. That soft, electric pink that hummed over the doorway like a dare. Lucky You! it blinked, and Sam Carroll grinned like the sign had read her soul instead. Her flip-flops slapped lazily against the worn wood floor as she stepped inside, instantly swallowed by a cocktail of grease, salt air, and someone belting Bohemian Rhapsody two notes too high and two drinks too deep.

God, it was perfect.

String lights crisscrossed overhead like constellations made by drunk gods, looping between disco balls and sun-bleached surfboards nailed up in defiance of any fire code. The place smelled like spam musubi and beach sweat and whatever perfume memory smelled like your first bad idea. And she loved it. Every square inch of chaos.

She elbowed Jess as they passed the laminated menus stuck to the sticky tables. “Pick your poison,” she murmured under her breath as they slid up to the mocktail bar, already eyeing the Slushie Happy Hour chalkboard like it was a sacred text. She went with something violently blue—Ocean Vibes or Seafoam Sucker, whatever it was called—and handed Jess something equally ridiculous with a cherry wedged halfway down the straw.

The couch in the corner looked like it had seen a hundred breakups and three marriages, but the cushions sank in like a secret. She dropped into it with a satisfied sigh, immediately claiming the left side, legs sprawled out like she owned the place. Plastic leis hung off the chairbacks like tired party favors, and the mural behind them showed a ukulele sprouting angel wings beneath a rainbow-spray of Sharpied signatures. Somewhere, a new voice was absolutely butchering Mr. Brightside.

Sam glanced around—quick, careful—and then grinned like a gremlin. “Operation: enhance hydration,” she whispered, pulling two airplane bottles of coconut rum from the pocket of her denim jacket. “One for you, one for me, and zero regrets unless we start singing Celine Dion.”

She passed him one under the table with the stealth of a street magician, using her own body to block the view while she popped hers open and tipped it into the slushie like she was salting the rim of rebellion. The drink turned a slightly deeper shade of bad decision, and she stirred it with her straw like nothing happened. Nothing at all.

She sipped. Winced. Grinned. “Tastes like poor choices and a tropical vacation. We’re definitely getting kicked out tonight.”

Jess took the bottle from her like it was a sacred relic, cradling it in both hands with an exaggerated gasp. “Samantha Carroll,” he whispered, dead serious. “Are you trying to seduce me with contraband and coconut fumes?”

He popped the cap with his teeth—showoff—and tipped the rum into his violently neon pink drink without even blinking. “This looks like Pepto Bismol had a midlife crisis,” he muttered, stirring it around with the flimsy paper straw. “And I say that with love.”

He took a sip. Made a face. Took another. “Tastes like sunscreen and regret. I love it here.”

The couch groaned beneath him as he sank into the other side, legs stretched out just enough to bump hers. He nudged her ankle once. Then again. A little game of footsie, casual as hell. Like he didn’t care. Like he definitely cared.

His voice dropped into a fake-news anchor tone. “In tonight’s headlines: Local teens caught corrupting slushies and the youth of America. When questioned, they blamed everything on an imaginary cousin named Kai and claimed to be emotionally allergic to sobriety.”

He raised his cup in mock salute. “To Kai. Gone but not forgotten. May his taste in karaoke be better than his impulse control.”

Jess took another long sip and settled back, gaze flicking to the stage where some poor soul was currently murdering the chorus with true conviction. “I give that guy a solid four out of ten. Two points for passion, one for the pelvic thrust, and one because I think that’s Brooke’s ex.”

He tilted his head toward her, lips twitching. “How long you think we can stay under the radar before one of us gets dramatic?”

Pause.

Then, deadpan: “It’s gonna be you. You know it’s gonna be you.”

But his hand was already brushing hers on the couch cushion—casual, crooked at the knuckle like he wasn’t sure if she’d take it. His fingers warm. Steady.

“Hey,” he added quietly, just for her, beneath the chaos. “Thanks for kidnapping me tonight.”

And then, grinning again: “Now hurry up and pick a duet before I sign us up for High School Musical and ruin both our reputations.”

Sam’s grin practically split her face when Jess bumped her ankle again. She tried to look unimpressed—she tried—but the boy had this annoying, reckless way of making her laugh like she’d swallowed sunshine and didn’t know how to act anymore. It was stupid. It was dangerous. She loved it.

"First of all," she said, twirling her straw dramatically in her boozy slushie, "just because I’m short doesn’t mean I know anything about flying under the radar. I’m five-foot-five of pure chaos energy, Jess. I’ve been on neighborhood watch lists since I was eight."

She kicked his foot lightly under the table, just to prove a point.

"And second," she added, leaning in conspiratorially, the rum already buzzing through her veins in a warm, mischievous hum, "it’s not every day the person I kidnap actually thanks me for it. You're welcome, by the way. I charge extra for emotional rescue missions."

Without giving him a second to react, she was already moving—hopping off the couch in a blur of denim cutoffs and bad ideas, weaving through the crowded tables toward the sad excuse for a DJ booth tucked next to the stage. The "DJ" was just some college kid in a trucker hat scrolling TikTok between songs. He looked up, startled, as Sam plopped their catalog down in front of him with the energy of a girl who had absolutely made up her mind.

“Yeah, hi,” she said, flashing a bright, way too innocent smile. “We’ll be doing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.’ Heavy on the emotional trauma. Light on the dignity.”

She could feel Jess watching from the couch, probably halfway through a facepalm already. Good. He’d had his chance to stop her and he wasted it.

Mission: Chaos, initiated.

Sam spun on her heel, practically skipping back through the neon haze, arms thrown wide like a victorious gremlin queen. She dropped back onto the couch next to him, drink sloshing dangerously over the rim of her cup.

“Hope you stretched, Montgomery,” she chirped, raising her cup in a toast. “You’re about to experience the raw, unfiltered power of my one-woman tragic ballad empire.”

She took a giant slurp of her slushie, smirked over the rim, and added, “And you’re singing the high notes.”

Jess groaned like he’d just been sentenced to public execution via key change. One hand scrubbed down his face, the other still clutching his drink like it might offer divine intervention. “Total Eclipse of the Heart?” he echoed, voice half a wheeze, half admiration. “Sam. Babe. Gremlin of my life. That’s not karaoke. That’s a full-blown emotional hostage situation.”

He stared at her for a beat, then tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closed like he was bargaining with the karaoke gods. “I swear to God, if you start off in a whisper and then go full sob-rock by the second chorus, I’m either proposing or throwing myself into the fryer.”

His gaze cut sideways to her, smirk curling lazy at the edge of his mouth. “Also, newsflash? I don’t do high notes. My voice cracks harder than your mom’s windshield during a hailstorm.”

But he was already leaning forward, already digging through the crumpled mess of leis and laminated menus for a napkin to scribble on. When he found one, he carefully wrote in all caps:

DEAR FUTURE ME,
IF YOU EVER VOLUNTEER FOR THIS AGAIN, SEEK HELP.

He slid it across the table like a contract and lifted his drink. “Cheers to shame. And to my falsetto, may it rest in pieces.”

Then he stood. Cracked his neck like he was prepping for battle. “But if we’re going down,” he added, grabbing her hand with a flourish that was part drama, part dare, “we’re going down in flames, Carroll. Bonnie and Clyde, but with worse vocals and more artificial cherry flavoring.”

As they moved toward the stage, the lights dimmed—barely. The disco ball overhead rotated with all the enthusiasm of a dying ceiling fan. The opening notes hummed through the speakers, sweet and doom-laced.

Jess leaned in close, lips brushing her ear as the intro played.

“I’m gonna sob-sing ‘there’s nothing I can do’ like I’ve just been left at the altar.”

And then he pulled back, winked like an idiot, and added, “You better cry.”

Sam snorted into her straw, half of her slushie nearly coming out of her nose. Cry? Please. She was about to destroy this place and they both knew it.

She hip-checked him lightly as they moved up the two rickety steps to the stage, plastic leis bobbing around her neck like she was about to host the world's saddest luau. The couch they'd left behind sagged mournfully, already missing their collective chaos. The battered microphones waited, their cords tangled around each other like drunk prom dates.

She yanked her mic from the stand with a flourish, spinning once before dramatically tossing her hair back. “Listen up, Bambi,” she said under her breath, grinning at Jess like the menace she was born to be. “I’m the kidnapper here. You better remember that and stop whining about the soundtrack to your downfall.”

The first slow, tragic chords of Total Eclipse of the Heart oozed through the ancient speakers, and for a split second—just a split second—Sam looked like she might actually lead this thing straight. Like she was about to croon through the intro, all misty-eyed and brokenhearted while Jess hung back doing backup vocals and plotting his escape.

Except the second she tilted her mic toward him, that traitor took over.

Jess belted out the first line like he’d been waiting his whole life for this specific disaster, his voice low and way too committed for someone who claimed he couldn’t sing. Sam nearly doubled over laughing, the rum and slushie making it impossible to stay upright.

But she caught herself just in time—wiping a fake tear from the corner of her eye—and when her cue hit, she threw herself into the “Turn around...” backup with the solemnity of a choir angel on probation.

"Turn around..." she sang into the mic, pitching her voice like she was about to unleash a Disney villain monologue.
"Every now and then I get a little bit lonely..." Jess crooned dramatically, gripping his chest like a man who’d just been abandoned at sea.

Sam prowled the tiny stage, mic cord dragging behind her like a tail, hitting each “Turn around...” with increasing theatrical despair. One arm up. One hand on her heart. Flopping into a chair like a Victorian widow by the second verse.

And the crowd?
They. Ate. It. Up.
Drunk aunties cackling. Some surfer dudes chanting their names. A group of tourists recording it all on shaky iPhones, doomed to replay this legendary mess forever.

Sam shot Jess a glance between “Turn arounds,” and he was already smirking at her—that stupid, perfect grin that always made her feel like the luckiest idiot alive. She grinned back, wild and reckless, and thought:

Oh, we’re about to cause an emotional incident no one in a two-block radius is prepared for.

And she couldn’t wait.

As the song built—like a freight train made entirely of bad decisions—they only leaned harder into the madness.

Jess started throwing in dramatic spins, half-choreographed, half-"oops I almost fell off the stage" energy. Sam lost it halfway through a “Turn around, bright eyes,” laughing so hard she missed her next line and had to hide it by doubling over the mic stand like the heartbreak was just too much for her little soul to carry.

When the first chorus hit—“There’s nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart!”—Jess dropped to his knees like a man freshly smote by the heavens, belting so hard his voice cracked gloriously on “eclipse.”

Sam, not to be outdone, flung her arm around his shoulders like a soap opera heroine clinging to her doomed love, the mic trembling in her hand as she wailed her next “Turn around...” straight to the back row.

By the second chorus, she was standing on one of the battered folding chairs the DJ had clearly stolen from a funeral home, waving her plastic lei like a flag of victory. Jess was stalking the tiny stage in wide, swooping circles, ripping the mic from the stand and pointing dramatically at random strangers like he was choosing them to carry on his legacy.

It was loud. It was off-key. It was an artistic crime against humanity.

And it was, without question, the best performance Lucky Voice Lounge had ever seen.

By the bridge, Sam was practically screaming into the mic between fits of laughter, doing aggressive interpretive dance moves that looked like she was simultaneously mourning a lost love and dodging bees. Jess had one foot up on the edge of the stage, fist in the air, howling the lyrics like he was fronting a tragic 80s hair band reunion tour that only he believed in.

The crowd was losing it.
Someone in the back chucked a plastic lei at Jess's head.
The DJ finally looked up from his phone, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t decide whether to call security or join them.

And somewhere, through all the lights and the broken sound system and the sugar-rum buzz making her heart race, Sam caught Jess’s eye again—saw that wicked glint, that pure, stupid joy—and realized:

This was the kind of night you remembered when everything else went quiet.

And hell, if she was going down in flames, she couldn’t have picked a better idiot to crash and burn with.

Jess was gone.

Fully, spectacularly, no-turning-back gone.

The second Sam hip-checked him up the rickety stage steps, something clicked loose in his brain—the part that usually said hey, maybe don’t turn this into a full-scale Broadway meltdown—and by the time she tossed her hair like a caffeinated pop star, Jess knew:
They weren’t just singing a song.
They were declaring war on dignity.

He yanked the mic from its stand with a wild flourish, cords whipping behind him like a soap opera lasso. “Listen up, Bambi,” Sam said, that evil grin cutting through the neon haze, and Jess could barely breathe around the laugh threatening to crack right out of his chest.

“Oh, I remember,” he muttered back, matching her grin with a feral one of his own. “Stockholm Syndrome’s a hell of a drug.”

And then the music hit.

God, the music hit.

That first slow, tragic drip of Total Eclipse of the Heart oozed from the battered speakers like the last breath of a dying romance movie—and Jess snapped. No warm-up. No plan. He just threw himself into it, belting the first line like he was fronting a sad boy uprising, clutching his chest like some kind of 80s rock martyr who’d been wronged deeply by fate and eyeliner.

Sam’s laugh hit him a second later—bright and cracked and unstoppable—and Jess caught it like a spark, grinning so hard his cheeks ached. She tried to keep it together, bless her chaotic heart, but every “Turn around…” she threw at him just got more ridiculous.
More dramatic.
More them.

He matched her step for step—theatrical gasps, tragic flourishes, spinning too hard and nearly falling right off the stage. When she flopped into the chair like a Victorian widow, Jess staggered back a full two steps, bowing low like he was paying respects to her heartbreak.

The crowd?
They were eating it alive.
Surf bros fist-pumping. Aunties howling. Tourists trying and failing to film steady because they were laughing too damn hard.

Jess lived for it.
For this.

For the way Sam caught his eye and grinned like chaos personified, a girl who didn’t just start fires—she danced in them. And for the way his own heart answered without permission: Yeah. Her. Always her.

By the first chorus, he dropped to his knees so hard it rattled the stage, howling, “THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO—” with a voice that cracked beautifully, gloriously, like a ship breaking in half mid-storm. He pointed into the crowd like he was swearing in random citizens to join their tragic cult of bad karaoke decisions. Some dude actually saluted.

Sam threw herself at him during the second chorus, clinging dramatically to his shoulders as she belted “Turn around…” like she was summoning the spirits of wronged emo kids everywhere. Jess caught her with one arm, half holding her up, half ready to go down swinging if she took them both out.

When she climbed onto that janky funeral chair and started waving her lei like a battle standard, Jess lost it—hands over his heart, looking up at her like he’d just witnessed the second coming of Freddie Mercury and a hurricane had gotten together and raised a daughter.

And then the bridge hit.
Oh, the bridge.

Jess stomped across the stage with his fist raised like he was leading a rebellion against taste and sanity, his voice cracking so hard mid-note it practically left skid marks on the ceiling. A plastic lei hit him square in the face, and he caught it one-handed, wore it like a goddamn crown, and kept right on howling like the most tragic warlord of the high seas.

Through all the madness—the fake tears, the dodging of invisible bees, the sound system begging for mercy—he saw her again.
Sam.
Grinning. Breathless. Brilliant.

And it hit him, deep and certain in a way no rum-slushie haze could touch:

This.
This was it.

The best goddamn night of his life.
And he wouldn’t trade a second of it—not the missed notes, not the falling apart, not the cheap leis or the fact that tomorrow his voice would sound like a dying cat—for anything.

Jess stumbled back toward her as the last chords warbled into static, mic hanging limp at his side, heart pounding so hard it made him dizzy. He didn’t say anything at first—didn’t have to.

He just bumped her shoulder with his, grinning like he was about to die laughing, and breathed out, rough and raw against the neon buzz:

“…You’re my favorite bad idea, Carroll.”

And for once, he didn’t even try to joke it away.
Not when it was true.
Not when it was her.

Sam beamed—beamed—like someone had just handed her a tiara and told her she’d been crowned Queen of Poor Life Choices. She spun her microphone once dramatically in her hand, tucked it under her arm like a football, and shot him a look so wicked it practically sizzled against the neon.

“My dude,” she said, dead serious, “I’m the kidnapper and the bad idea. Double threat. Keep up.”

She threw a wink so aggressive it could’ve been classified as a weapon and then dropped into a deep, ridiculous bow, one arm slung wide like she was accepting an Olympic medal for Crimes Against Karaoke. Jess—because he was a showman and a menace and hers—immediately followed, sweeping into the world’s most sarcastic flourish beside her, the both of them nearly tripping over each other as the battered stage creaked in protest.

The applause hit like a wave—clapping, cheering, a couple whoops and drunken whistles—and Sam, high on coconut fumes and adrenaline, blew the crowd an over-the-top kiss before tossing her microphone casually onto the stand behind her.
Like a mic drop, but way more chaotic.
Way more them.

Jess set his mic down too, way gentler because he was still pretending to be the responsible one (liar), and together they stumbled off the stage, practically vibrating with leftover energy. Sam’s heart was hammering against her ribs like it was trying to punch its way out and chest-bump him in thanks.

She elbowed him once they hit the floor, flashing that grin that was part victory, part feral pride, all trouble. “Dude. I actually feel bad for whoever has to follow that," she crowed, waving dramatically at the stage behind them. “We just emotionally assassinated an entire building. No one’s topping that unless Beyoncé herself drops from the ceiling.”

The look Jess gave her—fond, dazzled, a little wrecked—made her feel ten feet tall and just drunk enough on him to think she could do anything.
Absolutely anything.

Sam slung an arm around his waist like she owned him (because, obviously, she did) and yanked him closer as they stumbled back toward the battered couch, their plastic leis bouncing wildly, the echo of their ridiculous, glorious chaos still hanging in the humid air behind them.

And if the world had any sense of justice, she thought wildly, it would spin on that moment forever.
Her.
Jess.
And a godawful love ballad they’d absolutely butchered together.

Jess didn’t even try to fight the grin splitting his face—it was helpless, reckless, stitched straight into his bones.

He let Sam yank him in, her arm slung around his waist like a living, breathing victory banner, and he slung his own arm right back across her shoulders without thinking, pulling her in just a little tighter. Enough to feel the way she was still buzzing, practically vibrating with leftover chaos and sugar-rush adrenaline. Enough to feel how the laughter still lived right under her skin.

“My dude,” she said, all lethal wink and sunshine-drenched menace, and Jess barked a laugh that came out a little too loud, a little too wild. “Double threat,” she announced like a war declaration, and Jess just shook his head in awe—because yeah. Of course she was.
Of course she was.

When she dropped into that ridiculous bow, Jess didn’t even hesitate. He was right there with her, sweeping into the dumbest, most over-the-top flourish he could manage, nearly taking them both out when the stage gave a sad creak beneath them. Sam looked like she’d just won the goddamn Olympics in emotional terrorism, and Jess?
Jess looked at her like she was the trophy.

The applause hit and Jess couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t eating it up—shoulders back, head high, grinning like he’d just robbed a bank and gotten away with it. He set the mic down carefully, because unlike Sam he pretended he had manners (even if he absolutely did not), and then let her drag him offstage like a getaway car.

Her elbow jabbed him in the ribs, sharp and affectionate, and Jess huffed a laugh, glancing sideways at her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“Beyoncé wouldn’t even try to follow that,” he said, voice rough with leftover shouting and sugar-burned happiness. “She’d just fake a power outage and bounce.”

Sam’s arm tightened around him and Jess tightened his in answer, like maybe if he held on hard enough the whole night would freeze right here—her laugh caught in her throat, the air thick with heat and salt and slushie fumes, the two of them stumbling barefoot back toward their wrecked little couch like kings and queens of beautiful disasters.

God, he was so gone for her.

He let her steer him back down into the sagging couch, their knees knocking together, their leis sliding crooked across their shoulders like sad trophies. The crowd was already trying—and failing—to recover, the next brave soul warbling something halfway decent in the background, but Jess barely heard it.

He could only hear her.

The way Sam’s laughter cracked in her throat, wild and half-drunk on joy.
The way her hand lingered a second too long against his waist before sliding down to snag her cup like nothing happened.
The way she looked at him, bright-eyed and flushed, like they’d just set the whole damn world on fire and dared it to put itself out.

Jess tilted his head toward her, shoulder bumping hers again, lighter this time. A secret nudge. A thank you in a language only they spoke.

And under his breath, so low only she could hear, he said:

“Next time you kidnap me, Carroll… don’t bother with the ransom note.”

Because he wasn’t running.
Not from her.
Not from this.

Not ever.

Jess didn’t even realize he was smiling until his cheeks started to ache. The cheap plastic of the lei scratched at the side of his neck, the slushie in his hand was mostly just melted regret now, and he was pretty sure his knees were gonna be bruised tomorrow from that tragic power ballad sacrifice—but none of it mattered.

Not with her.
Not with this.

Sam flopped sideways into the couch with zero grace, her hair sticking to her forehead, her legs sprawled halfway across his lap like she belonged there. Like she always had. Jess shifted just enough to hook an arm lazily across her knees, trapping her there without even pretending to be slick about it.

She tilted her head back to look at him—upside down, eyes shining, mouth still tugged into that too-big, too-bright grin—and Jess felt something raw and stupid crack open in his chest.

“You realize,” he said, voice rough with laughter and something softer hiding underneath it, “we just peaked. Like, this is it. Top of the mountain. Nothing in life will ever hit harder than emotionally assassinating a room full of strangers with a tragic power ballad.”

Sam snorted so hard she nearly choked on her slushie, and Jess felt the laugh break loose in him too, bigger and messier than it had any right to be.

God, he loved her like this.
Loved being with her like this—unapologetic and loud and alive.

He reached out and lazily tucked a strand of sweaty hair behind her ear, pretending it was no big deal even though his hand lingered a second too long, fingertips brushing the curve of her jaw like he couldn’t quite let go.

She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t even blink.

Just looked at him like maybe—just maybe—she was feeling the same thing.

Jess let the moment stretch, loose and lazy and crackling in the humid neon air.

“You’re trouble,” he said finally, soft like a confession and a challenge all at once. His thumb tapped once against her knee, casual, claiming. “You’re the best kind of bad decision I ever made.”

He meant it to sound cocky—meant it to land with a wink and a shrug—but his voice betrayed him at the end, rougher, realer, so full of her it almost hurt.

Jess swallowed. Looked down at his half-dead slushie. Back up at her.

“Next song’s yours,” he said, and this time his grin was a little uneven, a little wrecked. “Name it. I’ll follow.”

He meant the karaoke.
He didn’t just mean the karaoke.

And he knew—he knew—by the way Sam’s smirk softened into something dangerous and golden that she caught it too.

Jess leaned back into the couch, sprawling out like he had all the time in the world, and tipped his cup toward her in a mock toast.

“Lead the way, kidnapper,” he murmured, voice wrecked and worshipful.
“I’m already gone.”

Sam drained the rest of her neon-blue slushie in one long, reckless pull, the coconut rum burning a sweet, happy trail down her throat. Her head tilted lazily against the couch, hair sticking to the back of her neck, a grin carving permanent grooves into her cheeks as she stared at Jess—her Jess—over the rim of her cup.

He was still laughing under his breath, that lopsided, sunbeam grin she swore could cause structural damage if she looked at it too long. His legs sprawled wide, plastic lei hanging crooked around his neck, the corners of his shirt damp from slushie spills and humid air. He looked like every good memory she'd ever had in one ridiculously tall package.

Sam shot him a slow, exaggerated once-over, playful and entirely unrepentant. “You know,” she said, voice syrupy sweet with mischief, “for a hostage, you’re awfully committed to the bit. Stockholm’s looking suspiciously like a lifestyle choice, Montgomery.”

She flicked the edge of his knee with her straw, grinning when he jolted just enough to slosh what was left of his drink onto his hand. Perfect.

God, she loved this.
Loved him.
Loved the way they moved through the world together, like two chaotic storms that just kept colliding in the best possible way.
Childhood friends turned bene-friends turned couple turned power ballad masters.

Sam tucked her legs more firmly across his lap, owning the space between them without hesitation. It wasn’t even a conscious thought anymore—being close to him felt as natural as breathing, as necessary as the way she burned bright around him without ever dimming herself down.

She could’ve stayed here forever.
Would have, if the universe was smart enough to let her.
Because this?
This was the peak.
Not the only one—they had a lifetime of stupid, messy, beautiful mountaintops ahead of them—but tonight, wrapped in bad karaoke and coconut fumes and the best goddamn human she’d ever known, Sam knew:
This was one for the map.
One for the storybooks.

She sighed happily, the sugar buzz making her limbs loose and warm, her mind already spiraling into a hundred new, terrible ideas. She could let them chill for a song or two, she thought generously. Give the crowd a breather. Let their legend marinate a little.

But after that?
Oh, after that she had plans.
Big ones.
Larger-than-life ones.
Possibly illegal ones.

Her fingers drummed lightly against Jess’s thigh, plotting rhythms only she could hear. Her gaze flicked to the karaoke catalog abandoned on the table, devilry already sparking behind her eyes.

She turned back toward him, nose scrunching up adorably, smile tilting all wicked and bright.
“You might want to hydrate, sunshine,” Sam teased, voice low and charged. “Because next round? We’re going full cinematic universe. Drama. Choreography. Wardrobe changes if necessary.”

She raised her empty cup in a lazy toast toward him, already half in love with the way he was grinning at her like she was both the chaos and the cure.

“Hope you’re ready to be legends, babe,” she said, smirking.
“Because we’re just getting started.”

Jess watched her—the way she sprawled across him like she was staking a claim, the way her fingers tapped an anthem against his thigh, the way her grin held a whole damn revolution behind it—and he knew, without a single doubt, he was done for.

Completely.
Gloriously.
Irrevocably wrecked.

Her slushie cup clinked against his, lazy and cocky, and Jess tipped his drink forward too, the sticky-sweet remnants sloshing over the side without a second thought. He couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Wouldn’t have even if he could.

“Born ready,” he rasped, a low promise carved right out of the messy, brilliant ache in his chest.

Without thinking—without ever needing to think—he caught her hand where it was still drumming against his leg, fingers slipping through hers like it was muscle memory. Like he’d been reaching for her his whole life.

And he leaned in, so close he could feel her laugh catch in her throat, could taste the wild sugar of her on the air between them.

“You make the mess,” he murmured, voice rough and wrecked and a little worshipful, “I’ll make it legendary.”

Their fingers tightened together, not soft, not tentative—certain. Like they’d already decided. Like the whole goddamn universe had already decided for them.

Jess bumped their foreheads together, just for a second, a jolt of contact that felt more like a blood oath than anything words could touch.

And when he pulled back, when he met her eyes—sparking and alive and so damn hers—he didn’t grin.
He smirked.
Slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Hope the world’s ready for the disaster they just unleashed,” Jess said, voice low and alive with everything he felt.
“Because I’m not slowing down, Carroll. Not for anything.”

And this time—
He knew she wasn’t

Sam barely had time to soak it in—Jess’s fingers tangled with hers, the heat of his forehead bumping against hers like a secret handshake only they knew—before the universe, sensing the absolute danger they presented together, decided to throw gasoline on the fire.

An employee appeared like some kind of ancient messenger from the chaos gods, plopping a basket of free fries down in front of them with a knowing smirk and a muttered, “Sing one, win one. You earned it.”

Sam gave the guy a salute so serious it would’ve made a general proud, then immediately grabbed a fry and launched it at Jess’s face like a dart.

“Target acquired,” she chirped, victorious, as it bounced off his cheek and landed squarely in his lap. “Collateral damage minimal. Spirits high. Mission successful.”

Jess just shook his head, laughing like she was the only thing keeping him breathing, and flicked a fry back at her in retaliation, missing wildly and almost hitting a poor guy wandering past with a basket of chicken wings. Sam threw her head back and howled—fully unhinged, fully hers—and for a moment, it didn’t matter that her slushie was half-empty, her hair was a mess, or the humid air was sticking her to the couch.

This was what life was supposed to taste like.
Salt and laughter and recklessness pressed into the shape of a boy who loved her chaos enough to catch it barehanded.

The next brave soul staggered up onto the stage, clutching the mic like it might bite him. A slow, warbly version of “Drops of Jupiter” started pouring from the speakers, off-key but earnest, and Sam snorted into her drink, tossing another fry into her mouth without missing a beat.

She slouched deeper into Jess’s side, stealing another fry—because victory demanded it—and then sat up slightly, one leg still draped over his lap like she absolutely lived there now, flipping the laminated karaoke catalog open dramatically onto her thighs.

“Alright, Monty,” she said, mock-serious, tapping the page with one neon-painted nail. “I’m feeling generous. Since you didn’t run away screaming and/or throw yourself into a fryer after the last performance, I’ll let you pick.”

She grinned sideways at him—that grin—all teeth and danger and affection so bright it practically shone.

“Option one: High-stakes heartbreak ballad, extra tragic. Option two: Early 2000s boy band choreography nightmare. Option three: Full-blown chaos with props I will absolutely steal from behind the bar if necessary.”

Sam tossed a fry in the air and caught it between her teeth with a wink.

“Choose your fighter, Montgomery. Your destiny awaits.”

And hell—whatever he chose?
She was already halfway in.
No brakes. No apologies. No slowing down.
Not with him.
Not ever.

Jess had no shot—none.

He was already half-gone when she leaned into him like she belonged there, like her laughter was the soundtrack to his pulse, like her fry warfare was a love language and he was fluent. But when she looked at him like that? Grin sharp enough to cut through bad lighting and humidity and the terrible rendition of Train happening behind them?

Yeah. He was doomed.

His mouth opened like he had an answer ready—like he was about to vote for chaos and crime and bar-prop larceny—but all that came out was a breathy, involuntary laugh.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he muttered, shaking his head with zero actual protest.

He tugged the menu toward him with a flourish, pretending to study it like it held the secrets of the universe instead of terrible song choices and poorly laminated regret. Her leg was still draped across his lap, her glittery nail tapping against the plastic like a countdown to his inevitable downfall.

Jess didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze caught on her mouth for a second too long when she caught that fry mid-air.

“Alright,” he said, dragging it out like a game show host about to ruin someone’s life—in this case, his own. “Option three.”

He looked up, eyes sparkling with mischief and the kind of reckless affection that came from knowing exactly what he was getting into and diving anyway.

“I want chaos. Full-throttle. Bring on the props, Carroll. Let’s ruin someone’s night.”

Then, softer—just for her, like it didn’t belong to the moment but to them entirely:
“And maybe win it at the same time.”

Because yeah, the music was bad and the lights were worse, and he was probably going to sprain something trying to do choreography with a stolen barstool,
but she was looking at him like he was worth catching fries and chaos for.

And that?

That was better than winning anything.

Sam exploded off the couch like a firework barely contained by denim and impulse.
Jess didn’t even try to stop her. He just leaned back, an arm slung lazily across the top of the booth, watching her tear across the room like a one-woman revolution.

The bar swallowed her up for a second—neon lights stuttering across her hair, the gleam of mischief in every step—and Jess let himself grin, helpless and stupid in the best way.

It figured.
Leave it to Sam to take a simple dare and turn it into an act of war.

When she reappeared, Jess had to blink twice.

Plastic sword tucked under her arm.
Feather boa swinging over one shoulder.
Shutter shades so blindingly pink they looked illegal.

She didn’t slow down—just barreled straight for him, shoving the shades onto his face like she was knighting him into whatever chaos she was about to unleash. The boa landed around his neck next, scratchy and absurd, and Jess laughed—sharp, genuine, like she’d cracked something wide open inside him he hadn’t even known was locked.

He didn’t need her to say anything.
He could read it in the tilt of her chin, the wicked sparkle in her eye.

This was happening.
There were no survivors.

The emcee called their names over the crackling speaker, and before Jess could even think, she caught his hand—tight, warm, full of electricity—and yanked him up like he weighed nothing at all.

The whole place blurred around them.
Sticky floors. Flickering lights. Strangers yelling encouragement or regret.

None of it mattered.

All Jess could feel was her hand in his, the way her fingers tightened like a promise he hadn’t even realized he was waiting for.

He let her drag him toward the stage without a fight, feather boa trailing behind them like a warning shot, the plastic sword knocking into his knee with every uneven step.

They hit the stage just as the opening bars of some chaotic pop anthem blasted out of the speakers.
Jess pushed the shades up onto his forehead, turned to her—heart hammering against his ribs—and grinned so wide it hurt.

Yeah.
He’d follow her into this storm.
Every time.
With nothing but a plastic sword, a ridiculous boa, and the hope that maybe, if he was lucky, she’d keep choosing him when the music stopped.

Because this—
This was what it felt like to be alive.
Messy. Loud. Reckless.

Perfect.

The second the first few synthy beats of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" cracked through the battered speakers, Sam knew—knew—they were about to burn this place to the ground in the best way possible.

Jess flashed her that idiot grin—all teeth and trouble, blond hair a mess under the crooked shutter shades she'd shoved onto his face—and it hit her like a body blow:
God, he’s perfect.
Not polished-perfect. Not cookie-cutter-perfect.
Perfect like a lightning strike. Like a busted-up surfboard you couldn’t bear to throw away because it still carried every wild ride you survived together.

He tipped the plastic sword at her in a mock salute, winking through the neon-pink slats of his shades, and Sam barely kept it together long enough to grip her mic.

The second the lyrics started, Sam launched herself into it—grinning like a lunatic, boa flapping wildly, pointing at Jess as she belted the first verse like her life depended on it. Jess? Jess was a menace.
He was air-drumming with the sword.
Pretending to swoon dramatically into the mic stand every time she sang "lonely heart."
Throwing himself into backup vocals with reckless abandon, voice cracking in all the wrong places and still sounding like the best thing she'd ever heard.

When the first chorus hit—“I wanna dance with somebody!”—Sam and Jess yelled it at each other, matching energy so violently she was surprised the stage didn't splinter beneath them. Jess spun her once like they were at some doomed middle school dance, the feather boa tangling them together until she was laughing too hard to breathe.

And Jess, that absolute menace, ripped the sword free during the instrumental break and challenged the air to a duel.
No—challenged her.

Sam cackled, ducking his wild swings like they were in a low-budget action movie, her mic barely clutched in one hand, the boa whipping around like battle armor. Jess lunged dramatically, stumbled, recovered with a bow so theatrical the aunties in the back actually cheered.

God, she loved him.
Loved him so stupidly, so recklessly, she didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore.

By the second chorus, Jess had slung the boa around both their necks and was hauling her into a mock slow-dance, the shades sliding down his nose, his laughter bubbling right against her ear.
His hand found her waist—steady, stupid, sure—and for a half-second, the whole world tilted.
Just them.
Just this.
Just wild, beautiful living.

“With somebody who loves me!” they screamed together, mics pointed at the ceiling like that could somehow capture the feeling tearing through her chest.

By the bridge, Sam was bent double laughing, Jess was sword-fighting an imaginary dragon off-stage, and the entire bar was losing its mind.

And when the final chorus came crashing down, Jess dropped to one knee like some tragic karaoke knight, holding the plastic sword out like he was offering her his kingdom.
Sam tossed the boa over his head like a crown and planted one foot on the stage like she was claiming victory.

They hit the last note together, howling it to the sticky floor, the cracked ceiling, the entire dumb, perfect universe that somehow, by some miracle, had put them right here.

Sam was breathless and shining and half-drunk on sugar and coconut fumes and him.

She looked down at Jess, shutter shades crooked, sword drooping, grin so wide it could split the sky—

and she knew.
Knew in her bones.
Knew in her wild, reckless, firework heart:

This wasn’t just a night.
This was theirs.

And they were never slowing down.

Not for anyone.

Not for anything.

Sam Carroll, mid-feather-boa, sunglasses slipping down her nose, grinning at him like she knew she was about to destroy him—and Jess let her. Let her own him without a fight.

The second the synths from I Wanna Dance With Somebody cracked through the battered speakers, he didn’t stand a goddamn chance.
He didn’t want to.

The shades she crammed onto his face were crooked, the sword he grabbed from under the bar was cheap plastic, but none of it mattered.
Not when she was looking at him like that.
Not when her laugh was already starting to bubble up, a promise just under the surface.

Jess tipped the plastic sword at her in a salute, trying to keep it together, trying to keep her together inside him before he came apart.

“Baby,” he called over the music, grinning like an idiot, “you’re not ready for this level of historical shame.”

She shot back something he didn’t even catch—too busy watching the way she launched herself into the first verse, fearless, wild, perfect in a way that cracked him open at the seams.

And Jess just went—no plan, no brakes.

Air-drumming like a lunatic, fake-swooning every time she sang “lonely heart,” throwing himself into backup vocals with a voice that cracked like shattered glass and still felt like the truest thing he’d ever heard.

When they hit the first chorus—when Sam pointed at him like a living lightning bolt—he met her right in the middle, yelling, “I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY!” so hard his throat nearly gave out.

She spun him. Him, not the other way around. Jess barked a laugh as the boa tangled around his chest and he stumbled into her, off-balance, alive in a way he only ever felt when she was in his orbit.

“You tryna kill me with love, Carroll?” he shouted, half-laughing, half-serious, heart hammering against hers for a beat too long.

And God, the way she laughed back—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world—made his knees weak in a way that had nothing to do with spinning too fast.

When the instrumental break slammed in, Jess ripped the plastic sword free and pointed it straight at her like a challenge.

“Prepare to meet your doom, karaoke queen!” he declared, his voice cracking heroically.

She ducked, agile and gleaming, feather boa trailing behind her like battle colors. He chased her, stumbling and swinging wildly, putting on the world’s worst action movie for an audience that was howling with laughter.

By the time he fake-bowed and the aunties whistled from the back, Jess wasn’t even pretending anymore—he was grinning so hard his face hurt, cheeks sore, ribs burning with the stupid, glorious happiness of being hers.

The second chorus hit and he looped the boa around them both, dragging her into a sway that had nothing to do with the tempo and everything to do with needing her closer.

His hand found her waist—sure, steady—and he dipped his head until his forehead brushed hers, just for a second.
Just long enough to breathe her in.
Just long enough to forget there was a whole world outside this couch, this stage, this storm they were building together.

“You realize we just rewrote karaoke history, right?” he muttered against her temple. “Hope the crowd’s ready for the trauma.”

“With somebody who loves me!” they screamed, so off-key it looped back around to perfect.

Jess didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

Didn’t hide the way his thumb stroked her waist without thinking.
Didn’t hide the way he kept laughing even when he missed the next lyric.
Didn’t hide the fact that he was already gone. Had been. Would be.

Always.

By the bridge, Jess was full-throttle chaos—sword-fighting invisible enemies, almost crashing off the edge of the stage, while Sam was doubled over laughing so hard she had to clutch the mic stand just to stay upright.

When the final chorus barreled down, Jess didn’t even think—he dropped to one knee like some tragic knight, sword held up with shaking arms and a grin so wide it felt like it might split him in two.

“For you, my queen of questionable choices,” he croaked, voice shredded and laughing.

Sam whipped the boa off and crowned him with it, stepping up like she was staking a claim over every dumb inch of him.

And Jess, breathless and wrecked and so stupidly in love he didn’t know where to put it all, stayed there for a second too long—just looking at her.

The lights buzzing above their heads.
The crowd whistling and screaming.
The sticky floor.
The dumb sword.
Her.

It was all background noise.
Everything else blurred out but her.

When he finally stood—shaky, wrecked, alive in ways he didn’t have words for—he wrapped his arm around her, tight and sure, and dragged her in against him like gravity had decided it wasn’t optional anymore.

He dipped his head, mouth brushing her ear, his voice wrecked and real and stupidly honest:

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever been stupid about,” he murmured.

And before she could crack a joke, before she could hit him with that grin that unmade him every time, Jess smiled against her temple and added, lower:

“And I’m not running, Carroll.”
“Not ever.”

Sam didn’t even get a chance to properly bask in their victory—still buzzing, still glowing, still clinging to Jess like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world—before the next poor soul got called up to the mic.

The guy—nervous, sweating bullets, gripping the mic like it might save him—launched into the first shaky notes of "Chasing Cars."

Sam, still flushed from their own performance and full of about three too many terrible ideas, tilted her head at Jess, wicked grin crawling across her face.

“We should knight him,” she whispered, barely audible over the intro chords.

Jess—beautiful idiot that he was—didn’t even hesitate.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t warn her.

Just tipped his plastic shades down his nose, flashed that wrecked surfer-boy smirk, and said:
“Do it, Carroll.”

And honestly?
That was all the encouragement she needed.

Sam exploded off the couch like a firework with bad impulse control, boa trailing behind her like a battle flag, plastic sword clutched in her hand like she was storming a castle.
Jess cackled so hard she could hear him across the sticky floor.

She vaulted onto the stage mid-verse—grinning like a gremlin who knew exactly how much trouble she was about to cause—and the poor dude didn’t even have time to react before Sam looped the boa around his neck and tapped his shoulders solemnly with the plastic sword.

“In the name of tragic bangers,” she declared into his mic, “I dub thee... Sir Sad Banger.”

The crowd erupted—half of them laughing, half of them howling in secondhand embarrassment.

Jess was losing it—practically falling off the couch in stitches, slapping his knee like he’d just witnessed a full-on miracle.

But not everybody thought it was funny.

Sam spotted the manager stomping toward the stage—short-sleeved polo, clipboard tucked under his arm like a weaponized buzzkill. His face was doing that thing adults did when they were trying to be polite but wanted to scream into a pillow.

He clapped his hands sharply once, twice. "Alright, fun's over. You two—out."

Sam, mid-curtsy, beamed at him like he’d just given her an award.

Jess was already on his feet, still laughing as he snagged the neon-pink shutter shades from his face and jammed them into his back pocket. Sam, obviously, kept the sword—like hell she was leaving her prize behind.

The manager didn’t physically touch them—just hovered nearby, arms crossed and radiating furious PTA dad energy as he pointed them toward the exit.

Sam blew an exaggerated kiss at the guy still trying to sing his sad little ballad.
Jess mock-bowed to the manager with a flourish so dramatic the lei slid halfway down his arm.

They stumbled out into the sticky, salt-heavy O‘ahu night, laughter bursting out of them so loud and wild that people passing on the street actually turned to stare.

Sam nearly collapsed onto the sidewalk, sword tucked under one arm, gasping for air between fits of wheezing giggles. Jess staggered beside her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, boa still tangled around his neck like a badge of honor.

“Oh my God,” Sam panted, grinning so hard her face hurt. “We just got kicked out for humanitarian work. That was community service, Jess.”

Jess, breathless and bright-eyed, caught her around the waist, spun her once just because he could, and bumped his forehead against hers.

“We’re so getting banned from at least three more places before summer’s over,” he whispered against her skin, voice still wrecked from laughing and singing and living.

Sam leaned back enough to see him, cocking her head, sword wobbling in her grip like she was about to knight him next.

“Three?” she snorted. “Montgomery, please.
We’re aiming for legendary.”

She grabbed his hand without a second thought, the sword bumping along against her side, the shutter shades poking out of his pocket like a beacon of bad decisions, and together they stumbled into the neon-stained night.

Messy.
Loud.
Alive.

And absolutely unstoppable.

God, he was so screwed.

Jess barely managed to stay upright, still half-doubled over from laughing so hard his ribs ached, the humid O‘ahu air punching into his lungs like even it couldn’t handle the chaos they were unleashing.

Sam clutched the plastic sword like a weapon forged from bad ideas and pure adrenaline, the feather boa tangled around her like a badge of honor, grinning up at him like she’d just won a war.
And she had.
She always did.

The second she whispered “We should knight him,” Jess didn’t even think.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t weigh consequences like some reasonable human being.

He just tipped his dumb plastic shades down his nose, flashed her that cocky, cracked-in-half grin he only ever wore for her, and said:

“Do it, Carroll.”

Because if Sam Carroll was about to start a riot, Jess Montgomery was gonna be front row, center, yelling encouragement and handing her the matches.

And Jesus, she launched.
Exploded off the couch like she was storming a battlefield, boa trailing behind her like a goddamn superhero cape, sword brandished like a promise of violence and questionable life choices.

Jess lost it—cackled so hard he nearly slid off the sticky vinyl seat, tears stinging his eyes, one hand slapping uselessly at his knee like he was eighty-five years old and had just seen the funniest thing on Earth.

He watched, wheezing, as she vaulted onto the stage mid-Chasing Cars, the poor guy holding the mic looking like he was witnessing an act of God or maybe a crime.

Sam looped the boa around his neck with all the solemnity of a knight ceremony and declared, clear as day:

“In the name of tragic bangers… I dub thee, Sir Sad Banger!”

Jess howled.

The crowd?
Gone.
Absolutely feral.

Some were laughing, some were cringing into their drinks, but Jess? Jess was damn near ready to propose marriage right there with a plastic sword and a sticky mocktail.

Until the manager showed up.

Buzzkill incarnate.
Clipboard. Polo shirt. Face like he just smelled something he didn’t like.

Jess watched him stomp toward the stage, clapping like he was trying to herd preschoolers, and even then—even then—he couldn’t stop grinning.
Couldn’t stop loving her.

“Alright, fun’s over. You two—out.”

Sam curtsied like he’d just handed her a Grammy. Jess followed with a bow so obnoxious he almost knocked the lei clean off his arm, and when the guy pointed them toward the door, Jess didn’t argue.

He just grabbed Sam’s hand, laughing under his breath as he tucked the shutter shades into his back pocket and made damn sure she didn’t leave her sword behind.

Priorities.

Outside, the night hit them like a wall—thick, hot, alive—and Jess spun her once, just because he could, just because she was in his hands and he never, ever wanted to forget what it felt like to hold her when she was buzzing and burning and brilliant.

Sam collapsed onto the sidewalk, sword cradled against her chest like a trophy, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

Jess dropped down beside her, legs stretched out, head tilted back toward the blinking neon above them, lungs still trying to catch up.

“Oh my God,” Sam gasped between giggles, “we just got kicked out for humanitarian work. That was community service, Jess.”

He laughed so hard it cracked his ribs from the inside out.

“Community service,” he repeated, voice wrecked and warm and full of her. “We deserve a plaque.”

He leaned in, forehead bumping hers again, no hesitation, no distance. Her skin was sticky with heat and sugar and neon light, and Jess didn’t care. Wouldn’t have cared if the world ended right then.

“We’re so getting banned from at least three more places before summer’s over,” he murmured against her temple, words caught somewhere between a dare and a promise.

Sam pulled back just enough to fix him with that look—the one that was all fire and future and bad intentions—and snorted:

“Three? Montgomery, please.
We’re aiming for legendary.”

Jess’s whole chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

“Legendary,” he repeated, like it was a vow, like it was already carved into the summer night around them.

She grabbed his hand—of course she did—and Jess wrapped his fingers through hers like it was breathing, like it was instinct, like it was the only damn thing that mattered.

Plastic sword bouncing against her hip.
Shutter shades sticking out of his back pocket.
Two idiots lit up by streetlights and the kind of laughter that didn’t know how to stop.

Jess squeezed her hand once, hard and sure, and let her drag him down the street, stumbling and grinning and so alive he thought maybe the whole world could feel it.

Messy.
Loud.
Unstoppable.

God help anyone who tried to get in their way.

Because Jess Montgomery had already decided:

He wasn’t going anywhere she wasn’t leading.

And the best part?
She wasn’t looking back.

Not even once.
And neither was he.