Jess didn’t even flinch when the bottle cap hit his chest—just looked down at it like it was a gift. Like she was a gift. Chaos-wrapped and sugar-fueled and absolutely unhinged in the best way.

He plucked the cap off his vest and tucked it in his pocket without a word. Evidence, maybe. Proof that someone like her had looked at him like that. Called him a simp with that ridiculous smile. Told him to shut up with candy and affection and middle fingers that meant I care more than I know how to say.

He was so screwed.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the point.

He jogged to keep pace again, sour straw still hanging out of his mouth like the world’s worst pacifier, and watched her launch verbal grenades at soda cans and the sun like both owed her money.

God, he loved her.

Even when she threatened him with Slurpee-related homicide. Even when she was halfway to declaring war on the recycling bin.

Especially then.

He adjusted his trash bag over his shoulder and nodded solemnly when she declared war on civic duty.

“Lead the way, Commander Chaos,” he said, saluting with two fingers and a gummy bear. “I’ll back you up if the recycling bin fights back.”

She snorted—real and involuntary, the kind of sound that made his ribs loosen.

And when she stomped forward, muttering about sticky flip-flops and emotionally fragile seaweed, Jess followed.

Because that’s what he did now.

Not just follow her into trouble—but through it. With her. For her. For this.

The trash, the sunburns, the chaos, the quiet moments she didn’t realize she was handing him like treasures buried under sarcasm.

He fell into step beside her and—without looking—reached out and laced their pinkies together.

No words.

Just sugar and sand and Sam Carroll’s stupid, sunlit grin burned into the center of his whole damn world.

It did suck.

But with her?

It felt like a future worth getting wrecked for.

Sam felt it before she looked.

That pinky.

That dumb, quiet, totally-not-a-big-deal pinky brushing against hers like it wasn’t the most criminally intimate thing he’d ever done. Not the kiss under the tree. Not the whispered promises. Not the jet ski empire or the way he said yours like it tasted better than candy.

Nope.

This.

This traitorous little pinky was what got her.

She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t look at him. Just let it happen—let their fingers link in that sideways, accidental way that didn’t feel accidental at all.

God, he was such a simp.

And she was even worse, because her heart did that thing again. That lurch. That full-body, flip-over, fireworks-in-the-ribcage thing that she refused to admit was real.

Because yeah, Jess Montgomery was infuriating. He was messy and loud and allergic to rules. He wore his feelings like they were spray-painted on his vest. He cried during Pixar movies. He got banned from that one froyo place for staging a spoon duel with Spencer.

And Sam?

Sam was supposed to be cool.

Untouchable. Sarcastic. Unbothered™.

Not this.

Not brain-melting, butterfly-choked, emotionally compromised in broad daylight over a pinky swear level of affection.

She blew out a breath, loud and exaggerated, like maybe that would kick her back into gear.

“So,” she muttered, eyes still dead ahead like she wasn’t seconds from combusting, “do we just keep cleaning or… do we rise up, spark a revolution, and storm the beach shack for snacks?”

Jess said nothing.

Which made it worse.

She could feel him looking at her, smug and golden and waiting.

“Like what?” he finally asked, low and way too smug.

Sam squinted at the horizon, pretending it was the sun she was glaring at and not him.

“Like… I don’t know,” she snapped, immediately knowing exactly what. “Like faking heatstroke so we can get sent home early and spend the rest of the day illegally dyeing Spencer’s mom’s dog blue.”

Pause.

Beat.

She pointed a sour straw at a far-off lifeguard stand. “Or! We hijack that. Claim maritime sovereignty. Declare it our offshore headquarters. You’re the court jester. I’m queen, obviously. First order of business? All seagulls are now banned. Forever.”

She glanced at him then—finally—just long enough to catch the corners of his mouth twitching. Not quite smiling. Not quite not.

She hated how much she liked that.

Her voice dropped just a little—enough to make it dangerous. “Or maybe we tie all the trash bags together, make a raft, and sail off into the great unknown like pirates fueled by vengeance and gummy bears.”

Sam arched a brow. “You got a sword, right?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Just bumped his pinky with hers again. Deliberate, this time.

And maybe her voice was still laced with sarcasm, still quick and sharp and borderline unhinged. But her heart?

Her heart was steady.

Fast.

Warm.

Like maybe this—trash bags, sand burns, and all—was already hers.

And maybe he was, too.

Jess didn’t breathe right for a second.

Because that—that pinky bump?

That wasn’t chaos.

That wasn’t sarcasm or sabotage or one of her candy-laced distractions.

That was a choice.

And it hit harder than anything she’d ever thrown at him. Harder than the kiss, the jokes, the almost-confessions she smuggled into every sour straw and shoulder check. Harder than her calling him Trash Prince like it wasn’t the softest nickname in the world disguised as an insult.

Jess Montgomery had been a lot of things in his life—reckless, relentless, a little too much of a romantic for someone with four outstanding parking tickets—but in that moment, he was still.

Because Sam Carroll just gave him her pinky on purpose.

And for a guy who’d been in love with her since the Fruit Roll-Up heist of 2013, that was practically a damn wedding vow.

He stayed quiet a beat too long—just long enough to make her fidget, to watch the way her bravado cracked around the edges when she didn’t get instant chaos back.

Then he smirked, soft and slow and dangerous.

“Oh, I’ve got a sword,” he said, voice low enough to count as a promise.

And then—because he was a menace in his own right—he reached into the trash bag, pulled out a piece of driftwood roughly the size of a baguette, and held it aloft like he’d just pulled Excalibur from a mound of old soda cans.

“Captain Montgomery, first of his name,” he declared, striking a pose, “sworn protector of seagull-free kingdoms and royal provider of outlaw gummy bears.”

He twirled the driftwood. Almost dropped it. Tried to recover. Failed gloriously.

Sam wheezed.

He grinned harder.

Then, quieter—just for her, just between them—he added:

“But if we build that raft… I’m not going unless you’re the one steering.”

His voice softened like it always did when he got serious by accident. “Whole world’s full of storms, Sam. I’ll take the wreck if you’re the anchor.”

And he meant it.

All of it.

He meant it with his hand still pinky-twined in hers, and his shirt streaked with sand, and his heart so full it barely fit inside his chest.

He meant it with the driftwood sword, and the seagull bans, and the way he’d follow her into any version of forever she was willing to build—whether it was offshore, sugar-coated, or stitched together with trash bags and hope.

Jess bumped her shoulder with his and nodded toward the lifeguard stand like they might actually take it.

“We go at dawn,” he said solemnly.

Then, after a beat:

“But first—we rise up and reclaim snacks. Revolution runs on sugar.”

He started walking, still holding her pinky.

Still hers.

Always.

Sam didn’t smile right away.

She wanted to—God, he made her want to—but it was too much. Too honest. Too loud inside her chest. So instead, she looked down at their hands, at the ridiculous pinky link that somehow felt more intimate than anything they’d ever done, and she tried to breathe like her heart wasn’t about to fall out of her damn ribcage.

Jess was still grinning. Still ridiculous and radiant and golden under the sun like some boy-shaped fever dream, armed with driftwood and sugar and a loyalty so dumb it made her dizzy.

Captain Montgomery, he’d said. Like that meant something. Like he was choosing this—choosing her—on purpose.

And when he said he wasn’t going anywhere unless she was steering?

Yeah. That broke her clean open.

Because Sam Carroll had never been anyone’s calm. Never been the one you followed. She was fire and fists and maybe a little too much for most people.

But not him.

Not ever him.

She swallowed hard, blinked up at him with her chin tilted stubbornly to keep the emotion from spilling over.

“You’re such an idiot,” she muttered.

But her pinky didn’t move.

And her voice didn’t sound mad.

In fact, it sounded a little wrecked. A little wowed. A little like maybe she was finally starting to believe him.

She leaned into his side, bumping his arm with her shoulder, their hands still stupidly, perfectly twined.

Then—because she couldn’t let him be the only menace—she yanked the driftwood from his hand and brandished it like a pirate who’d seen one movie and made it her whole personality.

“Then I dub thee First Mate Trash Prince,” she declared, stepping onto the nearest patch of sand like it was a throne. “Wielder of fake swords, smuggler of Swedish Fish, and my personal designated raft rower.”

She tapped the ‘sword’ against his shoulder with a dramatic flourish.

Jess saluted. Sand puffed off his elbow. Sam grinned.

And just as she was about to toss the driftwood over her shoulder and run screaming toward the nearest vending machine—

“Hey!”

The sound of sunburnt authority crashed through the moment like a wet towel to the face.

Sam froze. Jess groaned.

And sure enough, halfway down the lifeguard steps and already reaching for his clipboard like it was a taser—

Officer Buzzkill.

Complete with mirrored sunglasses, sock tan, and the God-complex of a man who once got a safety award in 2006 and never recovered.

“You two know the rules,” he barked, pointing toward the trash bag kingdom like they’d personally offended municipal order. “No unauthorized building. No driftwood fencing. And definitely no fake swords.”

Sam blinked.

Jess made a noise like he was about to argue.

But Sam just smiled, slow and saccharine.

“Sorry, Officer,” she said, tucking the ‘sword’ behind her back. “Didn’t realize the seagulls were unionized now.”

Buzzkill didn’t laugh.

Jess did, which didn’t help.

“Clean it up,” the man grumbled, already stomping back toward his perch like he had lifeguarding to do, despite there being literally no one in the water.

Sam waited until he was out of earshot.

Then she turned to Jess, still pinky-linked, still hers.

“Fine,” she said. “Raft at dawn. But only if we bring juice boxes and vengeance.”

She took a step forward—toward the snacks, toward whatever-the-hell-they-were, toward more—and gave his hand the tiniest squeeze.

“And Jess?”

She didn’t look at him. Just said it over her shoulder, real quiet.

“I’d follow you too.”

And she meant it.

Jess barely kept it together.

He could play it cool—hell, he usually played it cool—but the second she said that?
That she’d follow him too?

Yeah. Game over. There went his brain. There went his heart. There went any shred of composure he had left after being knighted by a girl with sand on her shins and revolution in her voice.

Because Sam Carroll didn’t say stuff like that. Not unless it was a joke. Not unless she could hide it behind candy or chaos or some half-muttered plan involving sea-glass grenades and light arson.

But this?

That tiny squeeze of her hand.

That quiet confession over her shoulder.

That broke something open in him so wide, he was pretty sure his ribs were never gonna close right again.

He caught up with her in two steps, half-jogging to fall back into rhythm like the world hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

“You say juice boxes like I don’t already have four in my backpack,” he said, tone bright, stupid, and very obviously deflecting the emotional earthquake she just casually dropped on him like seaweed. “Respectfully, Carroll—who do you think you’re dating?”

She snorted but didn’t look back.

He leaned in a little closer. Voice softer. Realer. Edged with something raw.

“And for the record…” he bumped her shoulder with his, “I’d let you row.”

Sam shot him a look, instantly suspicious. “You’d what?”

“I’d let you row the raft,” he repeated, solemn now. “You’d be terrible at it. You’d probably aim us straight into a jellyfish convention. But I’d still let you.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “That’s trust, Carroll.”

She tried to keep a straight face. Failed instantly.

Jess smiled like an idiot. Couldn’t help it.

And because he couldn’t not say it—not with his heart still somersaulting and her hand still tangled in his like they were writing vows in pinky promises—he added, casual as sin:

“I meant it, you know.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“All of it,” he said, not looking at her now—just letting the words fall where they may. “The raft. The seagull ban. The empire. You steering.”

A pause.

Then, impossibly soft:

“Being yours.”

And even though he knew she’d probably hit him with a piece of candy or make a sarcastic t-shirt out of it, Jess didn’t take it back.

Because that was the thing about loving Sam Carroll.

You didn’t get to hold her with both hands.

You got a pinky and a prayer.

And if she gave you even that?

You never let go.

Sam Carroll wasn’t the kind of girl who melted.

Not for compliments. Not for boys. Not even for illegal amounts of sour candy and a good mixtape.

But something about the way he said it—being yours, soft like the tide just rolled in and decided to stay—that got her.

Not in the obvious way. Not in the oh my God, swoon kind of way.

No.

It was sneakier than that.

It settled somewhere in her ribcage and refused to leave. Warm and irritating and stupidly beautiful, like the sunburn she wasn’t gonna admit was forming on her shoulders.

God, he was ridiculous.

And hers.

Which was… a problem. Because when Jess Montgomery got sincere? When he meant it with his whole dumb heart and his whole dumb gummy bear soul?

Sam didn’t know how to fight back.

Not really.

So she didn’t.

Instead, she ripped a fruit chew out of her pocket and tossed it at his chest without looking, the wrapper catching him square in the vest with a soft, traitorous plap.

“Gross,” she muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon. “You’re like one meaningful stare away from writing me a love song and making me sit through a PowerPoint about it.”

Jess opened his mouth to protest.

She cut him off with a sharp wave of her sour straw.

“I mean it. I’m not clapping for transitions. Not again.”

But then—then—she glanced at him.

Just a flick of her eyes. Quick. Lethal.

“You can be mine,” she said, soft enough to be mistaken for a joke. “But I’m not sharing my snacks, and I get first dibs on the pirate flag.”

Jess choked out a laugh like he’d been hit in the solar plexus.

Sam grinned, big and reckless, and nudged his hip with hers. “Also I get to name the sharks. Especially the angry ones. They remind me of you when you’re out of slushie.”

She could feel him watching her again, probably memorizing every freckle like a lunatic.

And yeah.

It was terrifying.

Being seen like this. Being loved like this.

But also?

It was kind of the best thing that had ever happened to her.

She laced their fingers again without ceremony. No pinky this time.

The whole hand.

And kept walking, like it was no big deal.

Because if Jess Montgomery was gonna be hers?

Then hell yeah.

She was gonna make it count.

Jess didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t need to.

Not when she laced their fingers like that—really laced them. Like she wasn’t hiding. Like this wasn’t a bit or a dare or something she’d pretend was ironic later. Like it mattered.

And to Jess?

That was everything.

More than the jokes. More than the swordplay and snack piracy and her pathological refusal to admit she was soft. That one gesture? That hand in his, real and steady and hers?

Yeah.

He was fully, irreversibly wrecked.

He looked down at their hands for half a second—just long enough to catch the way her thumb brushed his like it was an accident. It wasn’t. Nothing Sam did was ever accidental, not when it came to hiding how hard she loved.

But now?

She wasn’t hiding.

She was choosing him.

God help him, he was gonna write a song about it.

He was gonna write six.

But for now, he just squeezed her hand and bumped her shoulder with his, voice low and teasing but still honest around the edges.

“I’ll share the slushie if you share the snacks.”

Sam narrowed her eyes like he’d just insulted her ancestors.

He grinned.

“And if we die at sea building a gummy bear empire,” he added solemnly, “just know I’ll haunt Officer Buzzkill personally and make him file ghost paperwork for eternity.”

She huffed out a laugh—sharp, fond, all fire.

Jess held on tighter.

Because this was her.

A wildfire with a sugar addiction and an accidental heart of gold.

And she was his.

He didn’t say it again. Didn’t need to.

But he let it live in the quiet between their steps. In the crunch of the sand, the heat of her shoulder against his, the way she kept their hands locked like she might float away if she let go.

She wouldn’t.

He’d follow her to the edge of every map they ever tore in half together.

And if she let him?

He’d build her a new one.

With snacks.

Sam didn’t look at him right away.

She couldn’t.

Not when her throat was doing that tight, traitorous thing it only did when feelings crept up on her like a goddamn sea turtle in combat boots.

Ugh.

Stupid boy. Stupid hand-holding. Stupid emotional ecosystem they’d built out of jokes and rebellion and illegal quantities of sour straws.

She glanced down anyway—just for a second.

At their hands.

At his thumb tracing that slow, barely-there line across her skin like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

Like he felt it.

Like she felt it.

She swallowed hard, pretending it was just the heat or the candy or maybe the fact that she hadn’t emotionally hydrated since 2019. Her heartbeat felt like a surf drum—loud, messy, impossible to ignore.

And still—

She didn’t let go.

Instead, she leaned into him slightly, enough to bump his arm with her shoulder, casual as hell. “Just so we’re clear,” she said, voice breezy but breath catching a little on the landing, “I’m only sharing snacks because you’re cute.”

He opened his mouth.

She cut him off with a wicked grin. “And because I might be a little bit in love with you.”

A beat passed. Her heart tripped all over itself like it didn’t know where to stand.

Then she added, deadpan: “Mostly the snacks thing, though. Let’s not get cocky.”

She felt his hand tighten around hers—just a little.

Steady. Warm. There.

And Sam Carroll, for all her bravado and all her bite, suddenly felt a little bit safe in a way that didn’t scare her. That made her want to build something. Or set something on fire. Or maybe both.

She let the moment stretch out a breath longer—

Then:

“Alright, let’s wrap it up!” Officer Buzzkill’s voice echoed across the park, nasal and deeply annoying. “Bags to the dumpster. I want sign-outs in five!”

Sam groaned like she’d been mortally wounded.

“Ugh. There goes our grand finale,” she muttered, tilting her head back dramatically like the sky had personally betrayed her. “I was gonna deliver a heartfelt speech to the nearest seagull about civic duty and gummy-based romance.”

She bumped his hip. “Guess the seagull’s just gonna have to wait.”

And with that, she tugged him forward, their hands still locked, her grin sharp and stupid and completely unrepentant.

Because yeah—Officer Buzzkill might’ve ended the workday.

But the Sam-and-Jess empire?

That was just getting started.

Jess was done for.

Just absolutely, cosmically obliterated by a girl who confessed love like it was a punchline and held his hand like it was gospel.

He didn’t even try to hide it.

Didn’t smirk, didn’t joke, didn’t make a single dumb quip about snacks or seagulls or how the word love hit him harder than the time Spencer launched him off a bike ramp into a kiddie pool full of pudding.

He just looked at her.

Really looked—eyes all wide and wild and full of that quiet, jaw-dropping awe he usually reserved for meteor showers and new guitar strings.

“You…” he started, then stopped, because Jesus Christ, Montgomery, pull it together.

She was already tugging him forward, already cracking jokes, already being the best worst thing that had ever happened to him. And Jess?

Jess followed.

Because that’s what he did when it came to Sam Carroll.

He followed her into trouble. Into laughter. Into every chaotic, sugar-stained corner of the world she touched.

And now?

Apparently, into love.

He caught up in two strides and leaned closer—shoulder to shoulder, palm to palm, heartbeat to hurricane—and muttered, “Just so we’re clear… I was gonna name the seagull after you.”

Sam squinted at him like he’d personally offended her lineage.

He grinned.

“Because it’s fierce, emotionally unpredictable, and will absolutely mug a toddler for a potato chip.”

She barked out a laugh, half-gasp, half-wheeze, and elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

He winced. Lovingly.

And when they tossed the last trash bag into the dumpster with a shared, dramatic groan, Jess reached out and hooked a finger through her belt loop, tugging her just a little closer. Not asking. Just… there.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. No jokes. Just him.

“I might be a lot of things—loud, dumb, emotionally fueled by slushies—but I’m not missing this. Us. Whatever this is. Snacks and all.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Just let the silence sit between them.

Then, finally—finally—she bumped her forehead against his, soft and stupid and kind of perfect.

“…Fine,” she murmured. “But I still get to name the sharks.”

Jess grinned so wide it hurt.

“Deal.”