“Oh, it’s on now?” she echoed, incredulous. “You splash me once and suddenly it’s a full-blown folklore origin story?”

But Sam was already mid-charge—arms out, yelling nonsense, water flying in all directions like she was powered by pure gremlin energy. A wave hit her square in the chest and she didn’t even flinch—just used the momentum to fling more water in Leighton’s direction, shrieking like a mythic creature fueled by oat-based vengeance.

Leighton let out a half-laugh, half-yelp as another splash caught her in the ribs. “You are the least coordinated sea creature I’ve ever seen.”

But she was moving too now—charging through the water, hands out, bracing for chaos. The cold bit at her legs but she didn’t care, not with Sam’s hoodie clinging to her frame, hair dripping into her eyes, and a grin so wild it made Leighton’s heart thump hard and fast like she’d swallowed lightning.

Sam skidded to a stop, doubled over laughing. She held the seashell aloft like it was some kind of relic, dripping and victorious, before striking a pose so theatrical Leighton nearly tripped from laughing too hard.

“I hate you,” she said affectionately. “You’re the worst influence I’ve ever had. And I once went to an underground punk show with a guy who thought deodorant was a government conspiracy.”

Sam spun in place, arms flung wide like she could summon the moon, completely unbothered by the fact that her hoodie now weighed five pounds and her shorts were suctioned to her legs.

Then, softer—almost shy under all the theater—Leighton added, “I love this. Us. This stupid, perfect kind of night.”

But Sam was already moving, already running, already disappearing up the shore with limbs flailing and water splashing behind her like a comet of chaos.

Then she was sprinting too. Not to win. Just to keep up. Just to stay close to the only person who ever made the night feel like hers.

Leighton chased, feet slipping through wet sand, salt wind tearing through her laugh. She wasn’t trying to catch Sam—just refusing to fall too far behind. The moon lit the shoreline like a stage, silver and spilling, and the ocean kept pace beside them like it wanted in on the game.

Sam veered left around a cluster of rocks, leapt over a piece of driftwood like a stunt double with something to prove, and nearly wiped out in a patch of seafoam—but recovered with a flourish, arms raised like she’d planned it all along.

“You’re going to break your neck one day,” Leighton called, breathless, her voice half-scolding and half-awed. “And I swear to god, I will laugh at your funeral.”

She slowed as they reached the rockier edge of the beach, toes catching slick stone. Sam had already stopped, standing at the water’s edge again, this time still—wind pressing her clothes to her skin, hair wild and tangled, shoulders rising and falling with uneven breath.

Leighton caught up and stood beside her, not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat of her, the shared air. The sea stretched out forever in front of them.

For a while, neither moved.

Then Leighton reached down and scooped up a smooth black stone, damp and cold in her palm. She held it out like an offering.

“For your cryptid hoard,” she said lightly. “You’re one haunted locket away from being a beach legend.”

She glanced sideways, grin tugging at her lips. “I’ll write the first zine. You’ll get fan mail from middle schoolers who think you’re a misunderstood sea deity.”

Her voice softened again, just slightly.

“I’d believe them.”

The tide kissed her ankles, then pulled away. She didn’t move.

Sam took the stone with the same over-the-top reverence she’d given the seashell, cradling it in both hands like it held ancient power. Then she held it up to the sky with a solemn nod.

“Add it to the collection,” she intoned. “Two more items and I unlock cryptid level five. That's when I get the power to curse flip-flops and summon rogue waves at will.”

She glanced at Leighton, then smirked. “And don’t think I didn’t hear that funeral threat, by the way.”

She tucked the stone into the pocket of her still-soggy hoodie and turned to face the water again, voice pitching up like she was delivering lines to an invisible audience. “If—when—I die a chaotic, avoidable death, I expect my funeral to be legendary. I’m talking live band. Fireworks. Everyone gets a temporary tattoo of my face.”

She pointed at Leighton with exaggerated seriousness. “And you? You’re in charge of the playlist. Nothing sad. Only bangers. And one dramatic ukulele cover of something ridiculous. Preferably while someone tosses a surfboard into the ocean in my honor.”

Her grin softened then, fading into something real beneath all the bravado. She bumped her shoulder lightly against Leighton’s. “But yeah. I love this too. Nights like this. You.”

She paused just long enough to let it land—and not long enough to make it weird.

“Don’t tell Jess I got all sentimental though. He’ll never let me live it down.”

She sighed, letting the wind thread through the strands of her hair, salty and wild. “I needed this night. Like, more than I thought.”

Then, with perfect timing, she added, “But if you do write a zine about me, I want cool cover art. Something that says ‘mysterious menace with a heart of gold.’ Think Lisa Frank meets local urban legend.”

She flashed Leighton a crooked grin. “And if you make me sound half as cool as you already think I am, I might even autograph a few copies.”

Then she turned back to the water, still and shimmering, and whispered, “God, I love Hawaii,” like it was a confession. Like this was one of those rare nights that made the chaos quiet down for a little while.

Leighton tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, letting the damp fabric bunch at her wrists. She watched Sam cradle the stone like it was some sacred artifact, holding it to the sky with the full force of a ceremony only she could invent.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said under her breath, but she was smiling—too big to hide, too easy to hold onto.

She listened to Sam’s monologue without interrupting, just letting it wash over her like the waves curling at their feet. Temporary tattoos. Surfboards. Ukulele ballads. It was so perfectly, painfully Sam that it made something ache deep in Leighton’s chest in the best way.

When Sam bumped her shoulder, she bumped back without thinking—automatic, instinctive.

And when Sam said you, just like that, like it wasn’t something fragile or scary, Leighton blinked hard at the horizon and pretended the wind was what made her eyes sting.

“I’m not telling Jess anything,” she said lightly, kicking at a piece of driftwood with her bare toe. “He doesn’t deserve insider access to our secret emotional vulnerability sessions.”

The tide crept higher, swirling around their ankles, and Leighton let it.

“You’re getting Lisa Frank cryptid energy,” she agreed, solemn as a vow. “Pink dolphins. Neon lightning bolts. Maybe a sticker sheet with warnings like ‘May cause minor property damage.’”

She leaned sideways, just a little, letting her shoulder rest against Sam’s for a moment longer than necessary before pulling back.

“You’re already cooler than you think,” she said, voice low. “I’m just documenting the evidence.”

The water glittered under the moonlight, and for the first time in a long time, the world felt quiet enough to breathe.

Leighton tilted her head back, staring up at the sky, and whispered, “Yeah. I love it here too.”

She let the words go with the wind, knowing Sam would catch them even if she didn’t say anything else.

Samara Carroll was halfway through filling her second trash bag when she decided the universe owed her one. Not a big one. Just, like…a small lightning strike. Maybe a tiny rogue jellyfish. Something to balance the scales.

She kicked a flattened soda can into the pile with the toe of her busted Converse and wiped the sweat from her brow using the back of her wrist. The court-ordered reflective vest clung to her like cling wrap from hell, heat clinging to her skin like punishment for existing. Even the beach breeze couldn’t save her.

“This is child labor,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the sun like it was personally responsible for her sentence.

Which, to be fair—it kind of was.

Technically, she was responsible. For the slushie war. And the unauthorized glowstick bonfire. And the jousting incident that got them politely threatened with arrest by Officer Buzzkill. But whatever. Victimless crimes. Vibes-based rebellion. The law was just being dramatic.

She adjusted the bag slung over one shoulder and shot a look sideways toward Jess, who was a few yards down, trying to look helpful. Trying. His vest flared out behind him like a cape in the breeze, and his face was smug enough that she could feel it from here. Probably humming. Or grinning. Or both.

God, she hated him. God, she loved him.

“Hey, Captain Sunshine,” she called, voice cutting clean through the salt-thick air as she snapped a piece of tangled plastic off the sand like she was mad at it.

“Tell me again how this counts as justice and not just a plot to slowly bake me alive in front of tourists and seagulls.”

She didn’t wait for a reply—she was too busy storming toward him like the chaos incarnate she was, neon vest flapping, trash bag dragging, and boots kicking up sand like she had beef with the shoreline.

“You know what I could be doing right now?” she asked, one hand on her hip, the other tossing an empty Spam can into his bucket with aggressive flair. “Sleeping. Or causing mild havoc. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve turning into a cautionary tale about dehydration and bad life choices.”

Her voice had that edge to it—half fire, half grin, fully alive. She didn’t really care about the sweat, or the punishment, or the community service hours. Not when he was beside her. Not when the sun still kissed her skin like it had a crush. Not when her heart still beat hard enough to shake the sky every time she looked at him.

But Jess didn’t need to know that yet.

“Hope you brought snacks, Montgomery,” she added, slinging her trash bag down onto the sand with a dramatic huff. “Because I’m about five minutes away from either passing out or staging a rebellion. Possibly both.”

She cracked a wicked grin and tipped her chin toward the lifeguard stand where Officer Buzzkill was perched like an irritated seagull with a clipboard.

“Think they’d arrest us again if I tried to make you my union rep?”

She didn’t wait for his answer this time either.

Just folded her arms, cocked a hip, and looked at him like she was the revolution in a pair of cutoffs and sand-dusted eyeliner.

And maybe she was.

Because no matter how hot it got, or how ridiculous this punishment was, or how many tourists gawked at the two of them picking up trash in matching vests like low-budget superheroes—Sam Carroll was still on fire.

And Jess? Jess was still the only person on earth who’d ever made her consider burning a little slower.

Her voice dropped a little—still teasing, still sharp, but laced with something else now. Something softer.

“Alright, hotshot. You got ten seconds to impress me before I start building a sand guillotine. Go.”

Jess blinked.

Once.
Twice.

Then tilted his head slow, like he was trying to figure out if she was serious—or if this was just another one of those moments where Sam Carroll declared war on the universe and expected him to show up with snacks, backup, and a victory playlist.

(Spoiler: it was always the second one.)

He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead with the kind of theatrical exhaustion that absolutely no one was buying, then bent to scoop up a mangled beach umbrella that looked like it had lost a fight with a hurricane and three spring breakers.

“Ten seconds?” he echoed, straightening, brows raised. “That’s not even enough time to monologue.”

But his grin was already forming—slow and lazy, sunshine-warm and just a little stupid—as he took a step closer, squinting at her like the heat shimmer coming off the sand wasn’t entirely from the sun.

“Alright, alright,” he said, dragging the toe of his sneaker through the sand like he was about to draw a treasure map. “Here goes.”

He cleared his throat dramatically.

“Fact one,” Jess announced, holding up a finger. “I picked up two beer bottles and a soggy hot dog bun this morning. A hot dog bun, Sam. The emotional trauma alone deserves a medal.”

“Fact two—” He stepped closer, leaning down just enough that his shadow crossed over her, giving her a sliver of relief from the heat. “I brought snacks. Gummy bears and an illegal amount of sour straws. Because I plan ahead. Like a man of substance.”

“Fact three—” Jess paused. Just a second. Just long enough to let the grin drop into something softer, steadier. “I’d pick up a thousand bags of trash if it meant getting to watch you yell at the sun and threaten local law enforcement with a sand guillotine.”

He shrugged one shoulder, casual and earnest all at once.

“Also, you look hot when you’re mad. So, y’know. Win-win.”

He held out the corner of his trash bag toward her like it was some sacred offering, the crinkle of plastic snapping in the breeze.

“Truce?” he said. “You handle the rebellion, I’ll handle hydration.”

And when she didn’t answer right away—when she just stood there, sweat-slick and seething and beautiful in a way that felt like getting tackled by summer—Jess leaned in just a little closer and added, low and wrecked:

“C’mon, Carroll. Let me be your trash prince.”

Because if he was going down, it was always gonna be with her.
Sunburnt, sand-dusted, rule-breaking and radiant.

And honestly?

He’d never wanted anything more.

Sam did not smile.

Not even when he leaned in close enough for her to smell that ridiculous watermelon sunscreen he always pretended wasn’t his. Not even when his stupid floppy hair flopped harder in the wind like it was trying to sabotage her willpower. Not even when he said “trash prince” with the kind of sincerity usually reserved for, like, proposals and deathbed confessions.

Her mouth twitched—barely—but she wrangled it into a unimpressed scowl and crossed her arms tighter, like that would protect her from the full, blinding force of Jess Montgomery trying to flirt with actual charm.

(Which was rare. And dangerous. And deeply unfair.)

“You are so lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

She plucked the corner of the trash bag from his hand with dramatic slowness, like she was considering charging him interest. Like she wasn’t already halfway to melting from the heat and the gummy-bear grin on his face.

“Trash prince,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s the title you’re going with? Not Trash Knight? Trash Overlord? Duke of Debris?”

Sam let the bag dangle from her fingertips and gave him a look that said this is beneath me—even as her cheeks flushed a little deeper under the sun.

“You’re lucky I’m a benevolent dictator,” she said, tossing a piece of trash into the bag like it personally offended her. “Because if it were anyone else, I’d stage a full coup and dump seaweed in their shoes.”

She risked a glance sideways.

He was watching her again.

Not grinning now—smiling. Like she’d hung the sun. Like her ranting about sand and government corruption was the best part of his day.

Sam’s stomach did something stupid and traitorous and soft.

Goddamn it.

She sighed, loud and theatrical. “Fine. Truce accepted. For now.”

Then, before he could say anything sappy and make it worse, she pointed at him with a piece of driftwood like it was a sword.

“But if you want to keep your crown, Montgomery, you better answer the next question right.”

She tilted her head, challenge sharp in her eyes but the corner of her mouth curling despite herself.

“Same deal—no thinking. If I asked you to ditch community service and go full outlaw right now, what crime are we committing together?”

Pause.

Beat.

Smirk.

“And keep in mind—this is not a test. It’s an opportunity.”

She gave the bag a victorious shake and started walking again, daring him to follow.

And of course—of course—he did.

Because for all her sass and swagger and perfectly timed eye-rolls, Sam knew exactly what this was.

This was love.

Sweaty, ridiculous, community-service-level love.

And Jess Montgomery?

Was her favorite co-conspirator.

Jess watched her walk away like she was the crime.

Like if Officer Buzzkill looked up right now and asked what Jess was guilty of, he’d point dead ahead and say: her.

Because yeah, she was storming down the sand with a trash bag over one shoulder like it was a battle flag, threatening seagulls with a stick, and somehow making fluorescent orange look like high fashion. But more than that?

She was his.

And there was no universe where he wasn’t following her.

“Okay,” he called, already jogging to catch up, his voice laced with the exact amount of reverence and idiocy she’d expect, “I got it. No hesitation.”

He matched her stride like it was muscle memory. Like he’d been orbiting her since birth.

“Step one,” he said, “we steal a golf cart. Preferably the one from the resort with the flamingo bumper sticker.”

Sam raised one brow but didn’t stop walking.

“Step two,” Jess continued, “we drive that sucker straight into the local farmer’s market, full-speed, blaring ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ on a Bluetooth speaker I definitely didn’t borrow from your mom’s garage.”

She laughed—quiet and sharp—and Jess grinned, because he’d heard that laugh before. That real one. The one she didn’t waste on just anyone.

“Step three,” he said, barely missing a beat, “we liberate all the heirloom tomatoes. Like, all of them. Just sprint down the street with our arms full, yelling about the great produce revolution.”

He threw his arms out like a movie trailer narrator. “Tomatoes. Justice. Glory.”

Sam slowed, lips twitching.

“And then?” she asked, deadpan, “we get arrested again?”

Jess shrugged, shifting the trash bag higher on his shoulder like it was no big deal.

“Obviously. But this time,” he said, nudging her elbow with his, “we choose the jail cell. We own the jail cell. Hell, we bring snacks.”

He looked at her, a little sideways, a little breathless.

“I don’t really care what the crime is, Carroll,” he added, softer now. “Long as it’s you and me doing it together.”

Sam didn’t answer right away.

She just stared at him for a second too long, eyes sharp and unreadable under her messy ponytail and sunburned cheeks.

Then she blinked, turned, and smacked him with the piece of driftwood so hard he yelped.

“You’re lucky that was cute,” she muttered, voice rough around the edges. “Any cuter and I might’ve kissed you in front of the seagulls.”

Jess grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

“Next time,” he said, brushing sand off his arm like it didn’t matter, “I’m bringing tomato bouquets and fireworks.”

Sam rolled her eyes but didn’t move away when his fingers brushed hers again. She let them stay there—half tangled, half daring each other to hold on tighter.

They walked the rest of the stretch in silence.

Just the two of them.
Trash bags.
Sunburns.
And the kind of outlaw love that didn’t need a spotlight to feel legendary.

And somewhere behind them, Officer Buzzkill sighed into his walkie-talkie like he knew—deep in his soul—that this was definitely not the last time he’d be bailing those two out.

Sam didn’t answer him at first.

Mostly because she was busy picturing the tomato heist in vivid cinematic detail—and hating how much she loved it.

Of course Jess Montgomery would pick something that stupid. That dramatic. That sunburned-shirtless-and-smiling-like-a-menace chaotic. And of course she’d immediately imagine him in that dumb flamingo-sticker golf cart, doing donuts around a stand full of organic radishes like he was born for it.

God, she was so screwed.

Still, she couldn’t let him win.

Not without a fight.

So she slowed just enough to let him catch up properly—trash bag bouncing against her hip, driftwood sword slung over one shoulder—and gave him a sidelong glance so practiced it deserved an award.

“Cute,” she said, casual, as if her pulse wasn’t already trying to stage an escape through her collarbone. “But you’re thinking too small.”

Jess blinked, then grinned, and Sam bit back her own smile as she adjusted the ponytail falling loose at her temple.

“If we’re gonna go outlaw, we go big,” she said, tossing the driftwood from hand to hand like a baton. “I’m talking… blowfish smuggling.”

Jess made a choked noise behind her, but she kept going, deadpan.

“Exotic fish ring. Black-market aquarium deals. We sell them to rich tourists at midnight under a fake name. My alias is Coraline Sharkbait. You wear an eyepatch. And a velvet robe. No shirt underneath.”

She didn’t look at him—refused to look at him—because if she did, she’d laugh. And this was serious.

“We launder the money through a beachside smoothie shack. Disguised as a banana stand. It’s flawless. Zero witnesses. Except maybe a pelican who knows too much.”

She finally turned, eyebrows arched, expression daring.

Jess was staring at her like she’d grown a second head—and he loved every part of it.

Sam pointed the driftwood at him like it was a mic drop. “That’s how you commit a crime, Montgomery.”

And right on cue—

“Hey!” one of the officers barked from the shade of the patrol tent, barely looking up from his clipboard. “Let’s not inspire the next round of charges, yeah?”

Sam turned back to Jess with a smug, unbothered shrug. “Oops.”

She bumped his hip with hers, grinning now, wide and sun-drenched and victorious.

Then, without looking at him, she reached down and laced their fingers together again—light, loose, easy.

Like she hadn’t just outlined a completely illegal underwater empire.

Like he wasn’t her favorite part of all of it.

“C’mon, Trash Prince,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ve got seagulls to conquer.”

And just like that, they kept walking.

Outlaws, idiots, legends in the making.

One crime of passion at a time.

Jess didn’t say anything right away.

Mostly because he was too busy short-circuiting.

Because Jesus Christ—blowfish smuggling? Midnight banana stands? Velvet robe, no shirt underneath?

Yeah, no. He was gone. Fully and completely gone. Brain fried. Heart hijacked. Dignity nowhere to be found.

He blinked at her—this girl with sea salt in her lashes and madness in her blood—like she’d just handed him a roadmap to their entire future, laminated and annotated with glitter pen.

Because the thing was?

He could see it.

Clear as day.

Them, sunburned and barefoot, making shady deals behind tiki torches. Sam cackling while waving a smoothie in one hand and a bag of ill-gotten sea creatures in the other. Him, probably getting slapped by a flounder and loving every second of it.

And yeah, sure, the pelican witness made it weird—but also kind of perfect.

So when she bumped his hip and called him Trash Prince again—like it wasn’t the best nickname he’d ever been given—he could only manage a breathless, crooked grin as she slid her fingers between his.

Light. Loose. Real.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice rough from holding in every single unhinged thing he wanted to say. “But only if your mugshot says Coraline Sharkbait, Ringleader of the Deep.”

Sam tilted her head, considering. Then smirked.

“Deal.”

They walked a little slower after that.

Not just because the trash bags were heavy or because the sun was relentless, but because something had shifted. Settled. Softened.

Like maybe they weren’t just killing time anymore.

Like maybe this wasn’t just a detour.

Jess glanced down at her—at the girl with salt in her grin and dirt under her nails and a brain so wildly, beautifully unhinged that she’d just offered him an entire fake criminal empire with a straight face—and he swore his chest cracked open a little more.

God, he was so in it.

He squeezed her hand once, gentle.

“You know,” he said, teasing but just this side of serious, “if we do get rich from the exotic fish biz, I’m buying you a yacht. Naming it The Samwich.”

Sam didn’t miss a beat.

“Only if we paint flames on the sides and install a waterslide shaped like a narwhal horn.”

“Done.”

They reached the next stretch of sand, a whole new graveyard of bottle caps and crushed chip bags and broken dreams.

Sam sighed and let go of his hand just long enough to swing her trash bag over her shoulder like a warrior preparing for battle.

“Alright, partner in slime,” she said, stretching her arms overhead like a cat with something to prove. “Let’s make this beach our bitch.”

Jess saluted.

Then followed her into the fray.

Because yeah, maybe they were just two sunburned teens in reflective vests with way too much imagination and not enough impulse control—but Jess Montgomery had never been more sure of anything in his life.

If Sam Carroll wanted to build a criminal empire out of smoothies and sea creatures?

He’d be there.

Right beside her.

No shirt, no regrets, all in.

Forever.

Sam Carroll was many things.

Unhinged. Sunburnt. Possibly a menace to maritime law. Definitely the reason Officer Buzzkill had a new forehead vein twitching on command.

But lazy?

Not exactly.

She just believed in strategic rebellion.

Which was why, thirty minutes and two sand-filled flip-flops later, Sam was still picking up trash like a chaotic gremlin on a caffeine bender—but also narrating an entire criminal universe while she did it.

“So obviously the smoothie shack is a front,” she declared, stabbing a plastic fork into her trash bag like it had insulted her ancestors. “But we expand. I’m thinking: shell jewelry black market. Rigged claw machines. Illegal hammocks.”

Jess choked on a laugh beside her, bending to scoop up a soggy soda can like it was a rare artifact. Sam didn’t even look at him.

She was in the zone.

“We only hire people with at least three parking tickets and one morally gray tattoo. We accept payment in cash, vintage pogs, or emotional damage. And on Thursdays?” She swung around, eyes gleaming. “Karaoke night. But exclusively sea shanties.”

Her bag thudded against her hip as she marched toward the next sad pile of broken flip-flops and crushed dreams. Jess was following, because of course he was, holding his trash bag like a knight’s shield and looking at her like she was the plan.

“You still with me, Montgomery?” she called over her shoulder, stepping over a crab like it was just part of the set dressing. “Or did I lose you at the hammocks?”

“No regrets,” he muttered behind her, wrecked and grinning.

Sam smirked, lips tugging crooked, but didn’t slow down—until she spotted it.

The cover.

A massive old ironwood tree, gnarled and sprawling, its branches dipped low and heavy like it was trying to hide something. Dense shadows pooled beneath it, blessedly cool, and—more importantly—completely out of line-of-sight from Officer Buzzkill’s little clipboard kingdom.

Sam’s eyes lit up.

“Montgomery,” she said, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Ten o’clock.”

Jess squinted.

“Trash pile?”

“No,” she hissed. “Sanctuary.”

He followed her line of sight. She could feel his grin forming before he even said anything.

“Operation Snack Break?” he asked, already adjusting his bag like a smuggler about to make a run.

Sam didn’t answer.

She just bolted.

Straight into the shade, trash bag flung dramatically over one shoulder like a traitorous cape. Jess was two steps behind her, laughing under his breath, sneakers kicking up little puffs of sand as they dove behind the natural barrier.

They dropped down on cool sand, tucked under the dense canopy of the tree, backs resting against the twisted trunk and legs stretched out like they belonged there.

Sam groaned like she’d just finished climbing a mountain. Or fought a seagull. Or both.

“God bless this shady crime tree,” she muttered, wiping sweat off her brow with the edge of her safety vest.

Jess didn’t say anything.

He just reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of sour straws like it was a sacred offering, and handed them to her without a word.

Sam blinked.

Then grinned.

Wide. Crooked. Chaos incarnate.

She popped one in her mouth, tipped her head back against the tree, and let out a satisfied sigh like a movie villain mid-monologue.

“Okay,” she said. “New plan.”

Jess raised an eyebrow, already halfway into a gummy bear.

She twirled the sour straw between her fingers like a wand and grinned, deadly-serious.

“We fake our own deaths, retire to an island, and open a cursed surf shop.”

She didn’t wait for agreement.

Because she already knew he was in.

Jess Montgomery would follow her into trash, treason, or tiki bars.

And Sam?

Well.

She planned to make it worth the mess.