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.