Jess was done for.
Finished.
Dead in the water and not even pretending to swim.

Sam dropped her forehead against his chest, groaning about how he was personally responsible for her “romantic throw-up,” and Jess let out a broken laugh, low and full and helpless.
It vibrated through his ribs, through her, through the whole sticky, neon-drenched mess they’d made together.

He didn’t move when she sat there longer than she had to—just let her stay, let her have him in that quiet, perfect way she never admitted to wanting.
Because if Sam needed space, he’d give it.
If she needed an anchor, he’d be it.

When she finally pulled back and poked him again—sharp and insistent like she could beat back whatever cracked open between them—Jess smirked down at her, lazy and wrecked and stupidly in love.

She held up two fingers like she was officiating a crime scene and granted him “mercy,” and Jess dragged his thumb across the back of her hand again, casual and grounding and absolutely intentional.

“Zero points?” he rasped, eyebrows lifting in mock outrage. “After a line like that? Carroll, you wound me.”

He bumped her knee with his own when she cuddled back into him—completely unbothered, completely hers—and tilted his head like he was weighing whether it was worth arguing.

Spoiler:
It wasn’t.
Not when she smiled at him like that.
Not when she looked like the only thing in the whole world that was still burning clean.

When she warned him not to get cocky, Jess let out a soft, warm huff of air against her hair and muttered:

“Baby, cocky’s my default setting.”

But he said it with so much affection, so much wrecked certainty, that it didn’t land like a joke.
It landed like a promise.

Then she hit him with the next question, knee jabbing into his like a spark to gasoline.

“If you had to get a tattoo tonight—right now, no thinking—what would it be?”

Jess barked out a rough laugh, tilting his head back against the wall, his free hand raking through his already-messy hair.

“Jesus, you don’t pull punches, do you?”

He cracked a grin sideways at her—half dare, half confession—and let the first thought that hit him tumble out without filtering it, without guarding it, without hiding.

“Alright,” he said, voice dropping low again, playful but dead serious underneath. “First thought? I get a tiny, dumbass crown.”

He turned his head to catch her eyes, thumb still tracing slow, lazy circles against her hand like a grounding wire.

“Right here.”

Jess tapped the inside of his wrist—the one still tangled with hers—the most breakable, permanent part of him.

“Little one,” he added, grin tilting softer now, something molten and dangerous flickering behind it. “So I don’t forget who made me feel like I could be somebody’s king.”

He bumped her hand once, light, sure, so damn wrecked for her.

“And yeah,” he added, slouching deeper against the wall, grinning wider when she blinked at him like he’d just punched all the air out of her lungs, “I’d definitely regret it tomorrow.”

He leaned in again, slow and cocky and impossibly soft, so close their noses almost brushed.

“But not because of the crown.”

Jess tapped her wrist lightly with his own, sealing it like a vow no one else would ever get to hear.

“Because it wouldn’t be big enough to cover how fucking gone I am for you, Carroll.”

He grinned, slow and wrecked and absolutely unstoppable.

“Your move.”

And he didn’t even pretend he wasn’t hoping—aching—for her to wreck him right back.

Sam blinked at him.

Once.
Twice.
Real slow.

Because seriously?
How was she supposed to survive when he was out here talking about tattooing tiny crowns and being somebody’s king like it wasn’t the most gut-wrecking thing she’d ever heard?

God, Jess Montgomery was dangerous.
And not in the cool, bad-boy, hide-your-daughter way.
In the smile-at-you-wrong-and-make-you-want-to-hand-him-your-soul way.

Sam squeezed their tangled hands once—quick, fierce, so he wouldn’t see it happening—and then blew out a breath through puffed cheeks, dramatically tossing her head back against his shoulder.

"Babe," she groaned, flinging her free arm out like she was announcing a tragedy to a crowd of mourners, "you’re trying to kill me with feelings and we haven’t even served our full jail sentence yet."

She let it hang there a second—long enough for him to think she was about to crack wide open—

—and then she twisted fast, popping up just enough to swing around and face him full-on, her grin pure chaos and trouble.

"You wanna see real pickup artistry?" she declared, jabbing a thumb into her own chest like she was gearing up for a halftime show. "Take notes, Montgomery. You’re about to get schooled."

Without giving him a chance to brace, Sam leaned in low, wiggling her eyebrows, voice dropping into the worst fake-sultry tone imaginable:

"Are you French?" she purred, the accent so bad it could’ve been a hate crime, "because Eiffel for you."

She waggled her eyebrows even harder, like she was physically trying to push the terrible joke into his brain by sheer force of will.

Jess snorted—an honest-to-God, broken sound—and Sam, victorious, leaned back with her arms wide like she’d just nailed a perfect dismount.

"Bam!" she cried. "Textbook disaster. That’s how you commit to emotional warfare!"

She beamed at him, sitting back with the kind of shit-eating, full-teeth grin that only surfaced when she knew she’d absolutely owned a moment.
Jess was still wheezing beside her, head tilted back against the wall like he was trying to figure out how he’d ended up stuck in a jail cell and in love with a gremlin all at once.

Sam tapped their joined hands lightly—no pokes this time, no jabs—just a nudge. Soft. Sure.

"Bonus points for you," she said, mock-sweet, even as her heart thudded way too hard against her ribs. "Because that tiny crown thing? Kinda made me wanna tackle you in front of Officer Buzzkill. And that’s, like, the ultimate compliment."

She leaned in again, grinning all wild and warm against his shoulder.

"But don’t think you’re winning yet," she warned, winking at him, "I’m still ahead. Barely."

Without missing a beat, she shifted, cuddling right back into him like she belonged there—which, honestly, she did—and fired off the next question before he could get his bearings:

"Alright," Sam chirped, snuggling in closer and grinning into the fabric of his worn, slushie-stained shirt, "if we could be somewhere else right now—anywhere in the world, doesn’t matter how dumb or impossible—where would you pick?"

She tilted her chin up, challenging and wicked, her eyes gleaming.

"And no, Montgomery," she added, wagging a finger in his face, "you can’t say ‘right here with you’ or some tragic Nicholas Sparks bullshit. I’ll deduct ten points."

She smirked.
God, she loved him.
God, she hoped he never caught her smiling like that.

Because Sam Carroll wasn’t built for easy.
She wasn’t built for stillness.
But somehow—
Somehow, curled up sticky and bruised against him in a busted-up jail cell with a plastic sword on a desk twenty feet away—
she figured maybe she didn’t have to be.

Not with him.

Jess was grinning so hard it hurt.

Actual physical pain.
Rib-cracking, lung-aching, face-splitting pain.

Sam, sitting there like she owned the whole goddamn universe, delivering the worst fake French accent he’d ever heard in his life, waggling her eyebrows like she was physically trying to will him into cardiac arrest—

He didn’t stand a chance.

The second she hit him with, “Eiffel for you,” Jess wheezed.
Not laughed—wheezed.
A real, guttural, completely wrecked sound that shot out of him so hard he thunked his head back against the wall again, like maybe slamming his skull into cinderblock could somehow save him from how far gone he was.

Spoiler:
It couldn’t.

He slouched deeper against the wall, dragging her closer automatically when she leaned into him, like muscle memory—like gravity. His hand tightened where it was still tangled in hers, thumb brushing slow across her knuckles, lazy and steady even while the rest of him felt like it was vibrating out of his skin.

She tapped their hands together—soft, no chaos this time—and Jess felt that little nudge like it went straight to the center of him.

When she grinned up at him, wild and sure and so goddamn alive, and said the crown thing made her want to tackle him in front of Officer Buzzkill?
Jess laughed again, rougher this time, barely managing to get the words out past the wreckage of his grin:

“Jesus Christ, Carroll,” he muttered, voice rough and low, “I’d let you. Happily. No trial. No bail. Lock me up.”

He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

He let her burrow closer into him—her hair a mess, her skin hot against his, her heartbeat thudding in sync with his like some secret language they never needed to translate—and when she fired the next question at him, Jess didn’t even flinch.

Where would you be if you could be anywhere?
No Nicholas Sparks bullshit. No easy answers.

Jess tilted his head back again, staring up at the flickering fluorescent lights, letting the weight of her against him ground him in place.

For a second, he almost said it anyway.
Almost said here.
Because nothing else felt as right as her tucked into his side, wrecked and victorious and glowing.

But she’d made the rules.
And Jess Montgomery?
He played to win.

He let the silence stretch for a second—long enough to hear her shift, restless and waiting, practically buzzing against him.

Then he turned his head, smirked down at her, voice dropping into that low, rough register he only ever used when it was just her and no one else.

“Alright,” he rasped, slow and sure, “I’d pick… an abandoned amusement park.”

He felt her blink against his shoulder, felt her shift just enough to look up at him like she wasn’t sure if he was screwing with her.

Jess grinned wider, wrecked and dangerous, thumb still tracing lazy circles on her skin.

“Middle of the night. Full access. Nobody there but us,” he continued, voice soft and wrecked and way, way too real. “We’d steal cotton candy from the stalls, break into the photo booths, race each other up the rides.”

He tipped his forehead against hers again, so soft it almost wasn’t a touch at all.

“And when the lights start flickering,” he murmured, breath brushing her skin, “we’d climb the highest ferris wheel and sit right at the top—”

He squeezed her hand, tighter now, anchoring both of them to the moment.

“—and I’d kiss you like the whole damn world could see us and I wouldn’t give a single fuck.”

He leaned back just enough to catch her eyes, shining up at him all wide and alive and wrecked, and he smiled—small and broken and so sure.

“No Nicholas Sparks bullshit,” Jess added, grinning, “just us. Just stupid, messy, neon-lit idiots, owning the night.”

He nudged her knee with his again, playful but grounding, and added, voice low and full of wreckage:

“Tell me that wouldn’t be legendary.”

Because it would be.
Because she already was.

And Jess Montgomery would burn every Ferris wheel in the country down just to keep looking at her like this for the rest of his life.

Sam blinked up at him—
all messy hair and slushie-sticky skin and knees scraped from a traffic cone battle—and for once, she forgot to be the one who spoke first.

Because—
God.

An abandoned amusement park?
Stealing cotton candy?
Breaking into photo booths?
Racing up broken rides just so they could kiss at the top of the world?

It shouldn’t have hit her like it did.
Shouldn’t have socked her right in the ribs like a wave she never saw coming.

But it did.
Hard.
Full force.
No mercy.

Sam huffed a breath, short and sharp, trying to summon her usual arsenal of bad jokes and insults—anything—but all that came out was a broken little laugh against his chest.

She tilted her head back just enough to catch his eyes—wrecked, shining, absolutely sure—and flashed him a grin so wide it nearly cracked her face in half.

"And we'd probably," she drawled, poking him lightly with her chin, "definitely end up right back here,"
she grinned wickedly, all feral affection and reckless pride,
"but you're right, Montgomery. Legendary."

Her stomach flipped traitorously, and she had to thump her forehead lightly against his collarbone just to keep from combusting on the spot.

This boy.
This fucking boy.

Jess Montgomery, her favorite felony, her partner in crime, her worst and best idea all rolled into one.

Sam blew out a breath, sat up a little straighter, and raised her free hand toward the front of the cell where poor, long-suffering Officer Buzzkill was still halfheartedly pretending not to eavesdrop on their stupidity.

"Hey, Officer Buzzkill?" she called, voice sweet as a dagger hidden behind a candy cane grin.
"You might wanna look away."

The officer didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. He just sighed, long and weary, like he’d been babysitting idiots for a hundred years and wasn't paid enough for any of this.

"I’m about to kiss the hell outta my boyfriend for winning this very serious, very official game," she announced grandly, leaning closer into Jess, their noses brushing again.
"And since we’re minors and I don't wanna have to call the cops on you," she added, stage-whispering like it was a conspiracy, "you’re legally required to ignore it."

Without waiting for a response—because Sam Carroll had never waited for permission in her life—
she grabbed Jess by the collar of his rumpled T-shirt and yanked him down into her.
Hard.
Messy.
Perfect.

Their mouths crashed together, sloppy and laughing and so goddamn alive it made the ugly little cell around them feel like fireworks exploding behind her eyelids.

Sam kissed him like she had something to prove.
Kissed him like he was the last good thing in a busted-up world.
Kissed him like maybe—just maybe—winning didn’t matter when loving him felt like this.

When she finally pulled back—panting a little, forehead pressed against his, heart trying to pound its way right out of her chest—she didn’t let him go.
Not even a little.

She just smirked against his mouth and whispered:

"Zero points for you, lover boy."
A beat.
A wicked grin.
"But a million points for that kiss."

And somewhere outside the bars, Officer Buzzkill muttered under his breath,
"Teenagers,"
and Sam laughed so hard she nearly fell into Jess's lap all over again.

Because yeah—
maybe they were idiots.
Maybe they were a disaster.

But Sam Carroll wouldn't change a single second of it.
Not even for all the crowns in the world.

Sam barely had time to tuck her face into Jess’s neck, grinning so wide it hurt, before the heavy front door of the substation creaked open.

And there they were.

Parental backup.

Her mom, storming down the hallway like she was about to personally audit the entire police department, phone clenched in one hand, keys in the other.
And Jess’s dad—poor, resigned, half-exasperated, half-trying-not-to-laugh Mr. Montgomery—trailing a step behind, hands jammed into his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to scold them or take a picture.

Sam froze against Jess for exactly half a second.

Then, without warning, she shot upright like she’d been electrocuted—messy ponytail swinging, cheeks flushed, grin criminally wide—and jabbed an accusing finger directly at Jess’s chest.

"HIM!" she cried, dramatically enough that even Officer Buzzkill looked up from his paperwork. "HE’S THE BAD INFLUENCE!"

Jess choked on a laugh, head thunking lightly against the wall behind him like he couldn’t believe she’d thrown him under the bus this fast.

Sam turned to her mom, throwing both hands out wide like a lawyer delivering a closing argument.

"Look at him!" she gasped, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. "You can’t trust that face, Mom! That’s the face of a CONE-THIEF!"

Jess was laughing so hard now he could barely stay upright.
Slouching against the wall, hands lifted half-heartedly like he was under arrest for Crimes Against Traffic Control.

Mr. Montgomery let out a strangled sound suspiciously like a snort.
Her mom did not.

"Samara Eugenia Carroll," her mom snapped, voice sharp enough to slice concrete, "don’t even start with me."

Sam winced—full-body, dramatic, Oscar-worthy—but still couldn’t stop grinning.
She wiggled closer to Jess anyway, shoulder bumping his like a homing signal.

"For the record," she whispered to him, too low for the parents to hear, "you’re totally worth the misdemeanor."

Jess tilted his head toward hers, smirking like the smug idiot he was, and muttered back:

"Worth it twice."

Officer Buzzkill trudged over to the cell with the most exhausted expression Sam had ever seen on a human face.

He pulled out the keys with all the enthusiasm of someone about to open a very poorly-behaved zoo enclosure.

"You’re free to go," he muttered, jamming the key into the lock. "Don’t come back."

Sam popped up first—because of course she did—snatching the plastic sword off the desk as she passed by like it was her rightful property.
She jammed it under her arm, straightened her imaginary crown, and marched out like a general who’d just won a very stupid war.

Jess followed her, battered neon shutter shades poking out of his back pocket, laughing under his breath the whole way.

Their parents immediately started in with a stream of warnings, threats, lectures—something about “reputations” and “future college applications”—but Sam barely heard any of it.

Because Jess bumped his hand against hers once.
Then again.
And when she looked sideways at him—sunburned, slushie-sticky, wrecked and grinning like he’d do it all again tomorrow without a second thought—Sam squeezed his hand back.

Tight.
Sure.

Because yeah.
They were idiots.

But they were each other's idiots.

And Sam Carroll, for once in her chaos-riddled, messy, always-running life, decided she wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.

Not even the jail cell part.

Because somehow, miraculously, stupidly, wonderfully—

It had still been the best night of her life.

Jess couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the cocky kind he wore when he was pretending not to care.
Not the sharp-edged smirks he threw around like armor.

This was different.
This was wrecked and open and whole.

Sam, standing there in the middle of the station like she’d just conquered a goddamn kingdom, plastic sword jammed under her arm, ponytail swinging, grinning so wide it looked like it might split her in half—

God, he loved her.
Loved her like gravity, like instinct, like breathing.

He shuffled after her, the shutter shades still poking out of his pocket like a battle scar, hand brushing hers once, then again, needing the contact like he needed oxygen.

The parents were lecturing—vaguely threatening expulsion, grounded summers, “serious consequences”—but it all blurred into background noise.

All Jess could feel was her.

The solid, sure weight of her hand squeezing his back.
The way she didn’t flinch.
The way she didn’t let go.

He ducked his head as they hit the parking lot, dragging his thumb across the side of her hand once, lazy and careful, still half-expecting her to let go—to laugh it off, shove him away, crack some joke and bolt.

But she didn’t.

She just squeezed tighter, tugging him closer without missing a step, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it had always been inevitable.

Jess bumped her shoulder with his, smirking sideways without looking at her because if he looked—if he really looked—he might say something stupid like stay with me forever, and they were already probably a few lectures away from getting banned from the island.

Instead, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear:

“Pretty sure we just set a world record.”

He felt her glance up at him, eyebrow cocked, challenging without even saying a word.

Jess grinned wider, more wrecked, more real.

“World’s fastest rise from karaoke champions to public enemies to national treasures,” he said, voice warm and worn and full of her.

He tightened his grip on her hand, bumping their sides together again as they wove between the parked cars.

“And you, Carroll,” Jess added, voice dropping to a low rasp just for her, “are the best goddamn bad decision I ever made.”

He turned his head just enough to catch her eye—messy, bright, full of a thousand bad ideas they hadn’t even gotten around to yet—and winked, slow and sure.

“Would do it all again,” he said. “Twice.”

Hell, he’d do it a hundred times.
A thousand.
Every reckless, sugar-sticky, slushie-soaked second of it.

Because whatever trouble she was leading him into next, wherever they ended up—

Jail cells, rooftops, amusement parks at midnight—

Jess Montgomery was already in.
All in.

No backing out.
No second-guessing.

Just them.

Always, just them.