Welcome to Lucky Voice Lounge — O‘ahu’s most offbeat karaoke hideaway where the waves crash nearby and the mic never sleeps. Tucked between a surf rental shack and a malasada bakery, this sun-faded turquoise gem doesn’t look like much from the outside—but step through the palm-framed doorway, and you’ll swear you’ve crossed into a fever dream of song, surf, and nostalgia. With its white-trimmed charm and hand-painted wooden sign, the Lucky Voice Lounge invites you in with the casual confidence of a local secret and the chaos of your favorite beach bonfire memory.

Inside, the vibe is pure tropical dive-bar magic. Think string lights zigzagging overhead like constellations you only see when you’re buzzed and barefoot, sharing the sky with disco balls and vintage surfboards nailed to the ceiling. The hardwood floors are scuffed from dance battles and barefoot breakdowns. The walls are a kaleidoscope of bright murals, Sharpied dollar bills, and Polaroids of past karaoke legends frozen mid-glory. Ukuleles with wings, pineapples with attitude, and waves curling around neon microphones—all reminders that you’re here to let go.

At the heart of it all is a cozy chaos: mismatched couches, paper menus stuck to sticky tables, and plastic leis slung over every chair like someone threw a party and forgot to clean up. The karaoke stage is small—two steps up, two battered mics, and one flickering neon sign that reads Lucky You! above a retro screen flashing pixelated dolphins behind the lyrics to I Will Survive. And somehow, it works. You don’t need polish here. You just need nerve.

With an all-ages “bar” serving mocktails, slushies, and the best basket of fries this side of Waikīkī, Lucky Voice Lounge is where teenagers dare to duet, aunties belt Mariah like it’s church, and no one cares if you can actually sing. Because here, joy isn’t optional—it’s amplified.

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.”