Jess didn’t laugh this time.

Not right away.

He just looked at her—really looked—like she was more than the chaos, more than the mutiny, more than the punchline she always threw up like a shield. His gummy bear half-melted in his hand, forgotten, because suddenly Sam Carroll was sitting in dappled shadow, sun in her hair and dirt on her cheek, spinning fake-death escape plans like bedtime stories.

And Jess?

Jess wanted to believe every word.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice low, warm. “But only if we name the surf shop something completely unhinged.”

Sam cracked an eye open, skeptical. “Like what?”

He chewed his lip, pretending to think, then grinned.

“Riptide & Vandalism.”

She snorted so hard she nearly choked on her sour straw. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he said easily.

And there it was.

The pause.

The beat.

The way her grin slipped just slightly, like maybe she hadn’t been ready for that. Like maybe that word—your—hit a little too true beneath all the jokes and bad ideas.

But then she smirked again—classic Sam, full of teeth and trouble.

“Damn right,” she muttered, bumping her knee against his like it was a legally binding agreement.

They sat like that for a while, trading candy and half-sentences and the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. Out there on the beach, punishment still waited. Officer Buzzkill’s clipboard still loomed. Seagulls were definitely still plotting a coup.

But under the ironwood tree?

There was just them.

Sam and Jess.

A curse or a blessing. A hurricane in a paper cup.

And when Jess reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear, fingertips clumsy and reverent all at once—Sam didn’t pull away.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t joke.

She just looked at him, eyes soft, lips parted, like maybe she wasn’t building the next crime empire in her head for once. Like maybe—just maybe—this shady patch of stolen time was enough.

For now.

Then her voice came back, quiet and full of grit:

“…Riptide & Vandalism is terrible branding.”

Jess shrugged, unbothered. “Fits us.”

Sam leaned her head on his shoulder, sour straw still clutched in one hand like a tiny sword, and whispered:

“Yeah. It kinda does.”

Sam didn’t usually let moments get quiet.

Quiet meant stillness.

Stillness meant thinking.

And thinking? Thinking meant feelings—and she wasn’t in the business of handling those without sarcasm, decoys, or at least one solid distraction in the form of illegal sea creatures.

But under that tree, on sand still clinging to her calves and sun still biting her shoulders, with him sitting next to her like a human sunburned lighthouse?

Yeah. She let it happen.

Just for a second.

Because Jess Montgomery was looking at her like she was real.

Not just loud or fast or borderline feral, but real—like maybe he actually saw what was underneath the chaos she threw around like confetti. Like maybe he liked her anyway.

The thought was enough to make her stomach do something completely stupid and involuntary, like a backflip or a bad decision.

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the sour straw. “You’re lucky I’m hot,” she muttered.

Jess didn’t answer—just smiled that lopsided smile like she’d said something romantic, which was annoying. Because now she had to double down.

“I mean, obviously I’m the face of the business,” she continued, words picking up speed, “but if we’re gonna call the shop something stupid, we need a slogan. Something catchy. Something that says we have good surfboards and possibly a death wish.”

She sat up straighter, pointing the sour straw like a wand of absolute power. “How about: Riptide & Vandalism—get wrecked with style.”

Jess choked a little on his gummy bear, which Sam counted as a personal win.

“I’ll design the merch,” she added, settling into her brainstorm like it was gospel. “Limited edition hoodies that say Wave Goodbye to Common Sense. Flame decals. Maybe glitter. Definitely a skull in board shorts. Possibly holographic.”

She tossed a sideways glance at him—lazy, knowing.

“And obviously, we’ll need a signature scent. Something that says: this place smells like sunscreen, danger, and poor decision-making.”

Jess didn’t say anything right away. Just grinned at her, stupid and golden and so full of that soft-eyed wreckage she couldn’t deal with for more than ten seconds at a time.

She shoved another sour straw into her mouth before her brain got ideas.

And then, after a beat—just long enough for the silence to try something sentimental—she kicked at a piece of driftwood like it had offended her whole bloodline.

“If this turns into a PSA,” she muttered, “I swear to God I’m flipping Officer Buzzkill’s clipboard and swimming to Guam.”

She didn’t look at Jess when she said it.

Didn’t need to.

He was already grinning like she’d handed him her whole ribcage wrapped in a joke—and maybe she had.

So she cleared her throat, tossed the last sour straw wrapper at his chest, and added:

“But I will accept a jet ski. Preferably one with flame decals and a cup holder big enough for a Big Gulp. Y’know. For my trauma.”

And when he looked at her like he knew exactly what that meant—like he was fluent in all her made-up languages—Sam just smirked and bumped her knee against his.

Then didn’t move it.

Because yeah, she was chaos and a half.

But this?

This didn’t feel like getting stuck.

This felt like choosing trouble on purpose.

Jess didn’t respond right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because Sam was sitting beside him spinning entire crime empires out of sugar and sea salt, kicking driftwood like it owed her money, and daring the silence to blink first—and God, she was brilliant at it.

But he didn’t look away.

Not even when she hurled that sour straw wrapper at his chest like it was a grenade made of affection and trauma and neon sugar.

He let it hit him.

Then slowly peeled it off his vest and tucked it into his pocket like it was something sacred. Like he was collecting relics. Like every chaotic, candy-coated second of her was worth keeping.

Because she was.

Jess Montgomery didn’t believe in a lot of things. Authority. Clean lockers. Anything that required khakis. But he believed in her.

In the way her brain worked five steps ahead and sideways. In the way her words were armor and confession, both at once. In the way she said things like “get wrecked with style” and still somehow made his chest ache like a love song.

So when she bumped his knee—and didn’t move it—he glanced down at the space between them. At where her skin touched his like it belonged there.

Then he leaned in just a little closer, voice low, steady. The kind he only used when he meant it.

“I’ll get you the jet ski,” he said. “Flame decals, Big Gulp holder, maybe even a little flag that says Feral, But Make It Fashion.”

He saw the way her jaw clenched, like she was trying not to feel it, and kept going.

“And the surf shop? We’re doing it. Riptide & Vandalism, full send. I’ll man the smoothie counter and tell every customer you’re the real boss. We’ll play sea shanties at closing and only accept payment in chaos or compliments.”

He tilted his head, watching her now with that same reckless softness he couldn’t shake.

“You’re not stuck, Sam,” he said, quieter. “Not here. Not with me.”

He paused. Let the words land.

“Sometimes you just… pick the kind of trouble that feels like home.”

And if she looked at him then—really looked—she’d see it wasn’t a joke.

He was in.

Neck-deep in whatever outlaw, salt-crusted, slushie-stained life she wanted to build. Because if she was offering even one inch of her storm, he was gonna meet her with every ounce of his steady.

He bumped her knee back, gentle.

Then cracked a grin, tipping his head toward the sunburned horizon like it held answers they hadn’t even dared ask yet.

“Now, be honest,” he added, mouth curving. “Do we call the second shop Jet Ski Crimes & Co. or is that too subtle?”

Sam didn’t look at him right away.

She couldn’t.

Not when her mouth was full of salt and sugar and every muscle in her jaw was busy trying to keep her heart from falling out through her teeth. Because goddamn it, Montgomery—he meant that.

Of course he did.

Of course he was the idiot who could turn a joke about jet ski decals into something that felt like safety. Like a vow. Like maybe she wasn’t just spinning her wheels in the sand hoping someone saw her blur and called it beautiful.

And then he had to go and say that.
You’re not stuck.
Like it was a fact. Like it was gospel.
Like he hadn’t just cracked her open with seven words and a smoothie counter fantasy.

Sam sucked the sour from her teeth and stared straight ahead, blinking slow. The horizon looked blurry and she wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the ache behind her eyes.

She wanted to say something savage. Wanted to roll her eyes, throw a rock, laugh it off like she always did when people got too close to the parts of her that weren’t armor.

But Jess had a way of making her forget where she hid the sharp edges.

He bumped her knee again—gentle this time, like punctuation instead of a dare—and she exhaled through her nose, lips twitching.

“…Jet Ski Crimes & Co is a terrible name,” she muttered, voice low. “Sounds like a Florida-based pyramid scheme run by a man named Rick who exclusively wears flip-flops.”

She popped another sour straw into her mouth like she wasn’t melting from the inside out.

“But—”
And God, did that word catch on her throat—
“If we did open it, I’d make you wear one of those rash guards with flames on the sleeves. And I’d keep a squirt gun behind the counter just in case you got too soft and started saying shit like that again.”

Sam finally turned her head.

Looked right at him.

Right into that face she knew better than her own reflection. All sun and stupid hope and glittering mischief. That goddamn grin. That heart she didn’t ask for, didn’t earn, but was somehow still holding like contraband in her chest.

“And we’d never close on holidays,” she added, like it was the most important clause in the world. “Because someone’s always running. And you and me? We don’t leave people stranded.”

Her voice went quiet on that last bit.

Not soft. Not vulnerable.

Just real.

The kind of real she didn’t give away for free.

Then, before it could get too heavy—before she could start thinking about what it meant to picture a future with Jess Montgomery and mean it—she leaned over and shoved a sour straw between his teeth without warning.

“Now eat your emotional support candy, Trash Prince,” she said, smirking. “You’re getting sappy, and it’s making my sunburn worse.”

But her knee didn’t move.

And neither did her hand when it slipped into his again.

Somewhere out there, the world was still waiting to kick their asses.

But for now?

Under the tree, in the dirt, with sugar on her tongue and his chaos laced into her every heartbeat—Sam Carroll felt something dangerous.

Safe.
Chosen.
Home.

And she was gonna torch every rulebook in the state before she gave that up.

Jess couldn’t stop smiling.

Not the big, smug, scene-stealing kind of smile—though God knew he had that in his arsenal. No, this one was quieter. Lopsided. A little wrecked around the edges. Like someone had knocked the wind out of him with a compliment he didn’t deserve but would protect with his whole damn ribcage anyway.

Because she looked at him.

Not just a glance. Not a throwaway. She looked at him—eyes full of fire and threat and every secret she pretended didn’t exist—and let him see it.

And he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t pivot.

He just held it.

Like maybe her chaos wasn’t something to brace against, but something he could live in.

Jess let the sour straw hang from his mouth like a dumb cigarette and muttered around it, “You ever think maybe I like the squirt gun? Little danger keeps me humble.”

He could see her fighting a smile again, that twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying her right before she buried it in attitude. He lived for that twitch.

“And for the record,” he added, plucking the candy from his mouth and twirling it between his fingers, “I’d wear the hell out of that rash guard. I’d make it a whole thing. Flame sleeves, wraparound sunglasses, a name tag that says Manager of Mayhem.”
He bumped her shoulder, feigning seriousness. “You’d regret giving me that power.”

But even as he teased, his thumb grazed the back of her hand where their fingers had laced together like it wasn’t a big deal. Like this wasn’t everything.

Because it was.

Because for all the sea shanties and jet skis and criminal enterprise jokes, Jess had meant every word under that tree. He did believe in her. In her spark and spitfire and the way she refused to be anything but wildfire with a pulse. He liked that she wanted flame decals and that she kept her heart wrapped in barbed wire and bad puns. He loved that she still offered it anyway—even in pieces, even with disclaimers.

She thought she hid the good parts.

But Jess saw them all.

And he was gonna keep showing up. Keep standing in the line of fire. Keep being the idiot who brought gummy bears to a rebellion just to make her laugh.

Because Sam Carroll wasn’t stuck.

She was chosen.

And Jess Montgomery was choosing her right back. Every time.

Even if it meant getting squirt-gunned in the face for saying so.

He leaned in, just enough for his nose to bump hers, candy still dangling lazily from one hand.

“I’ll take the jet ski,” he whispered. “But only if you promise to drive like we stole it.”

He didn’t say I love you. Not yet.

But he didn’t have to.

Not when every inch of him was already screaming it without sound.

Sam didn’t answer right away.

Mostly because her whole body short-circuited the second he leaned in, all sunshine and reckless reverence, like she was a miracle and not a menace with a sugar addiction and impulse control issues. His nose brushed hers and her heartbeat jumped so hard it nearly lodged in her throat.

God, Jess.

Still that same golden-grinned, too-much boy who used to race her across tidepools and let her steal his fries, but now he looked at her like she was gravity. Like she was the one who pulled the tides. Like he didn’t know how to exist without anchoring himself to her orbit.

It was infuriating.
It was beautiful.
It was theirs.

Sam swallowed, dragging her eyes across his face—the laugh lines he didn’t try to hide, the scar on his cheek from that time Spencer dared him to skateboard down the seawall, the stupid sour straw still dangling between his fingers like the world's softest threat.

She leaned back a breath, but didn’t let go of his hand. Didn’t even loosen her grip.

Instead, she gave him a look. One of those looks. Eyebrows up, lips twitching, full of fire and affection and God help me, I like you more than oxygen energy.

“You,” she said slowly, “would absolutely crash that jet ski into a floating bar and somehow get offered a job.”

Jess blinked, wide-eyed and mock-offended.

Sam rolled her eyes, but the smile crept in anyway—sly and sun-warm, hiding nothing.

“And yeah,” she added, dropping her head back against the tree with a sigh, “of course I’d drive it like we stole it. I only have two speeds, Montgomery: full send and felony.”

She nudged his knee with hers again. Soft this time. Grounding. Like they weren’t just messing around anymore. Like maybe this was real in a way neither of them had words for yet—but they’d know it when they felt it.

And she felt it.
God, she felt it.

“Still think you’d look hot in that rash guard, though,” she said lightly, trying to break the tension before it swallowed her whole. “Manager of Mayhem is definitely your final form.”

She turned to face him more fully, tucking one leg under herself, voice going quieter—like a secret, or a promise she hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“…Been building dumb empires with you since we were eight,” she murmured. “Back when our biggest crime was stealing Spencer’s last fruit roll-up.”

Her eyes flicked up, locking with his.
No jokes this time. Just truth.

“I’d burn the whole damn world down if it meant keeping this version of us.”

And that was the thing about Sam Carroll. She didn’t say I love you like a fairytale. She said it like a warning. Like a match strike. Like a dare to try and survive it.

But when she leaned forward and kissed him—fierce and real and slow, like she was rewriting history with the taste of cherry sour on her lips—there was no fire. No war.

Just her.
Just him.
Just home.

And if the world ended right then, under that sun-dappled patch of stolen quiet, Sam Carroll would’ve gone out smiling.

Because she’d already won.

Jess didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe for a second.

Because that—that kiss, that girl, that firestorm of a human being who tasted like salt and candy and apocalypse—had just made every dumbass plan he’d ever had feel irrelevant. All of it. Every joke, every daydream, every chaos-fueled fantasy they’d ever half-seriously pitched each other between trash bags and sour straws.

None of it could compete with this.

This moment. This girl. Her.

And holy shit, she meant it.

Not just the kiss. Not just the words wrapped in razors and candy wrappers. All of it. The empire. The ride-or-die. The knee touches and flame decals and “don’t leave anyone stranded” loyalty she wore like a battle flag.

Jess blinked, once, like it might all vanish if he didn’t anchor himself to something—anything—and realized he was still holding her hand.

So he squeezed it.

Hard.

Then, voice rough and low and wrecked in that way he always got when she looked at him like that, he said:

“Sam.”

Like a prayer. Like a punchline. Like everything he’d never been able to say until right now.

He leaned back just enough to see her whole face again—every freckle, every spark, every ounce of holy trouble in her eyes—and grinned.

Soft. Lopsided. Hers.

“Two speeds, huh?” he murmured. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve only got one setting.”

She raised a brow.

He bumped her forehead with his, dead serious now.

“Yours.”

And look, maybe he wasn’t the smartest, or the steadiest, or the kind of guy who got it right on the first try.

But Jess Montgomery knew this.

Knew how to show up with gummy bears and bad jokes and ten thousand tiny ways of saying I’ve got you.

Knew that Sam Carroll was not a halfway thing.

And he didn’t want halfway.

He wanted this version of her. All teeth and loyalty and reckless tenderness she tried to hide behind sarcasm and fake crime syndicates. The girl who kissed like a riot and loved like a wildfire and made him feel like the world was survivable just because she was in it.

So yeah.

They’d build their cursed surf shop.

And maybe burn down a few things on the way.

But whatever came next?

Jess was all in.

“Manager of Mayhem and Chaos CEO,” he said, nudging her shoulder, voice full of affection and whatever the hell his ribcage had just exploded into. “Think we can make that work?”

And when he kissed her again—softer this time, like he wasn’t in a rush to stop—he wasn’t joking anymore.

He was home.

She felt it.

Not just the kiss—though God, that kiss had the kind of heat that could start brushfires—but the way his hand tightened around hers. The way he said her name like it had weight. Like it mattered. Like she mattered.

And for Sam Carroll, who had spent most of her life laughing too loud and loving too hard just to avoid the quiet ache of being left behind, that was the part that unraveled her.

The squeeze.

The forehead bump.

The way Jess said “yours” like it wasn’t a gamble, or a joke, or some tragic, sunburnt metaphor wrapped in flirtation.

Just truth.
Pure and dumb and devastating.

She stared at him—really stared—like she was cataloging the moment for future disasters. The slope of his grin. The twitch of his sun-chapped lips. The way his lashes curled and his shirt sat askew and his freckles looked like constellations she could map her entire future by if she let herself.

And she could’ve made a joke.

She wanted to.

Something sharp and fast and defensive, like: Oh, so you’re mine now? Cool. I’ll get the leash.

But the words caught in her throat.

Because instead of fire, she felt warmth.

Instead of panic, she felt steady.

Instead of drowning in it, she just… floated. Weightless. Right there under the damn tree with the world on pause and Jess looking at her like being hers was the best bad decision he’d ever made.

So Sam just leaned back into him, sour straw forgotten, fingers still locked in his like they were building something holy out of candy and contraband.

And she whispered—so soft it nearly vanished between them:

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

Not in fear.

Not in warning.

In awe.

Because somewhere between the crime plots and the karaoke arrests and the beach-cleaning community service, Jess Montgomery had stopped being just the chaos twin who made her laugh too loud and think too hard.

He’d become her anchor.

Her accomplice.

Her always.

She tilted her chin up, kissed the corner of his mouth—gentle, reverent, like a girl learning not to flinch when something feels like love—and said:

“Manager of Mayhem and Chaos CEO,” she nodded. “Power couple energy.”

Then smirked.

“But we’re installing a slushy machine behind the counter. Non-negotiable.”

Because this was them.

A love letter written in fines and flaming jet skis.

And Sam Carroll had never believed in anything harder.

She let the moment breathe for one more heartbeat—then stood abruptly, brushing sand off her legs and tossing him a look over her shoulder that was pure adrenaline and challenge.

“Come on, loverboy,” she said, grabbing the trash bag with one hand and the sour straws with the other. “Before Officer Buzzkill realizes we’ve been gone this long and makes us organize a recycling seminar or something.”

Jess scrambled up after her, still dazed.

Still hers.

And as they disappeared from the shade of that tree, grinning like the outlaws they were, the breeze behind them carried just a trace of her next sentence:

“Also—I call dibs on the jet ski first.”

Because obviously.

Jess didn’t even pretend to argue.

Couldn’t.

Not when his whole body was still humming with the echo of her voice—You’re gonna ruin me—said like it was worship, not warning. Not when her fingers had just curled into his like they were latching onto something sacred. Not when she kissed him like she meant it, then smirked like she still might set the world on fire if it looked at him wrong.

So yeah. She got dibs on the jet ski.

Hell, she could’ve called dibs on his last name and he probably would’ve just nodded and started brainstorming matching tattoos.

Because Jess Montgomery was wrecked.

Utterly, catastrophically, and unapologetically hers.

He watched her walk ahead, sun catching on her curls, vest crooked, swagger unbothered—like she hadn’t just rearranged the entire axis of his existence under a tree with a war declaration made out of gummy candy and devotion.

And then she tossed that look over her shoulder.

That look.

Equal parts trouble and promise. The kind of look that said keep up and you’re mine in the same breath.

Jess jogged to catch up, trash bag swinging in one hand, heart dragging behind like it hadn’t gotten the memo they were moving again.

When he reached her, he bumped her shoulder lightly with his.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, breathless in the way that had nothing to do with running, “if we ever do open that surf shop-slash-slushy-empire…”

She turned her head, one brow raised.

Jess grinned.

“You’re naming our drinks. I trust you to be chaotic and on-brand.”

Sam smirked. “Skullcrusher Sunrise, Panic Attack Punch, and The Emotional Support Margarita.”

Jess pretended to consider. “Can we name one after Officer Buzzkill? Like… The Clipboard Collapse.”

Sam cackled.

And that sound?

That sound was everything.

So he wrapped an arm around her shoulders—half-steadying, half-daring her to throw him off—and said, low and honest:

“I meant it, y’know.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t need to.

He was still saying it, with every step he took beside her. With every beat of his stupid sunburnt heart.

Yours.

Jess Montgomery didn’t know what came next.

Trash duty. Jet skis. Love. War. Maybe all four at once.

But he knew one thing like gravity:

Wherever Sam Carroll went?

He was already following.

And he wasn’t turning back.

Sam didn’t turn around when he said it.

Didn’t need to.

She heard it in his voice—that soft, bone-deep sincerity that made her ribs ache in weird, unfamiliar ways. Like her heart was trying to punch its way out just to be closer to him.

Which was gross.

And romantic.

And completely, completely unacceptable.

So naturally, she did what any emotionally compromised chaos gremlin with a boyfriend too hot for community service did:
She launched a bottle cap at his chest like a weapon of mass flirtation.

“Ugh, you’re such a simp,” she muttered, tossing her trash bag back over her shoulder like she was leading a revolution and not a state-mandated beach clean-up. “Gonna get us both arrested for loitering in the feelings aisle.”

But she was smiling. Stupidly. Helplessly. Like an idiot with a crush she’d already married in her head at least twice and fake-divorced once out of spite.

Jess caught up again, still grinning like a dumb golden retriever who thought he invented love.

Sam elbowed him. Hard. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the main event at your personal romance film festival,” she said, pointing at him with her sour straw like it was a mic drop. “Which, okay, valid—but control yourself.”

Jess opened his mouth.

She shoved a sour straw between his lips before he could speak.

“Eat candy. Be cute. Shut up.”

But her grin didn’t leave, not even when she bent to pick up a crushed soda can and nearly faceplanted into a patch of seaweed. Jess made a noise like he was dying trying not to laugh, and she flipped him off over her shoulder without missing a beat.

“Tell anyone I almost lost a fight with ocean salad and I’ll murder you with a Slurpee lid.”

She stood again, stretched like a cat that was personally offended by the sun, and sighed dramatically.

Trash bag in one hand, sugar in the other, and her favorite idiot in a vest beside her.

This sucked.

But with him?

It almost didn’t.

Almost.

Sam tipped her head toward the next stretch of beach, eyes narrowed like she was about to start a turf war with a Coke can.

“Alright,” she muttered under her breath, voice dry as sandpaper and twice as sharp. “Let’s go commit some goddamn civic responsibility.”

And she started walking.

Grumbling. Sunburned. Slightly sticky from candy.

But smiling.