Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Kiara had a dollar for every time she heard the phrase, "It gets easier with time," she’d be rich. Scratch that—she already rich. But she’d be even wealthier. A multi-millionaire, perhaps. Swimming in $100 bills, one for every person who thought they understood her pain better than she did.

She remembered the first time she heard it.

It came from Rafe. 

They were staying in a dilapidated hotel room in Lisbon. The place reeked of mold and it was located in the sketchiest part of town. Kiara didn’t mind—or rather, she didn’t care. They could’ve been sleeping on the streets for all it mattered to her. Back then, nothing mattered except one thing. The only reason she was sharing a room with Rafe Cameron in the first place.

Revenge.

That was why they’d embarked on a journey across the Mediterranean, ending up in Portugal’s capital. It was why they lay awake at 3 a.m., too restless, too haunted to sleep. And it was why Rafe, of all people, thought it was a good idea to offer her grief advice. He was her partner in crime—literally. 

Breaking the suffocating silence that had become their nightly companion, he spoke.

— It gets better with time, you know —

If he’d shot her, it would’ve hurt less. Murder attempts, she could handle. But Rafe Cameron trying to convince her, trying to make her believe he understood her pain? He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. And he had no right. No fucking right. Not to say anything about that. Not to say anything about him .

She remembers it vividly. How she cursed at him, jumped out of bed, and bolted out of the room. She couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t breathe the same air as someone who had known JJ Maybank, and yet chose to hurt him. And who then had the audacity to pretend he knew what it was like.

What it was like to love JJ Maybank. 

What it was like to lose him. Forever.

Not even the unbreakable power of Pogue friendship could fix death.

So she ran, she ran into the labyrinth of narrow, ancient streets of Lisbon. Blinded by rage, she didn’t notice the man following her.

They’d been so careful. Throwing Groff’s men off their scent. Staying locked in their room. Lights off. Curtains drawn. Faces hidden behind sunglasses and scarves. And now here she was—exposed. Alone. Helpless.

The man followed her, his movements quiet and calculated, waiting for her to let her guard down. He drew his gun slowly, silently, ready to strike. Taking a life. Killing a girl. It meant nothing. Her life meant nothing. But then, before he could kill her without her even realizing it, someone stopped him. 

Kiara turned when Rafe already had his arm locked to the man’s throat, his free hand pressing a gun to the man’s head as he ordered him in a low whisper to shut the fuck up or I kill you right here and now.

She almost screamed.

What the hell was happening? Who was this guy? And why was Rafe about to kill him?

She didn’t know Rafe Cameron had just saved her life.

And it wouldn’t be the last time.

He disarmed the man, dragged him back to their dingy hotel room, and beat him until he spilled every bit of information they needed about Groff’s whereabouts. When he was done, he turned to Kiara, his face unreadable, unfamiliar. There was something new. Raw and vulnerable. An emotion Kiara didn’t even think Rafe was capable of.

Guilt.

— I’m sorry, Kie — he said. What was he saying sorry for? For his unsolicited advice? For thinking he could understand?

For saving her life?

— I’m so sorry —

That wasn't the last time she heard "It gets better with time" but it also wasn't the first time she heard Rafe apologize. 

Far from it. 

And now, almost two years after that moment, she accepts it. 

Rafe was right.

It got better with time. 

Her pain is the same. She still misses him all the time. Loves him all the same. But the pain, the longing, the nostalgia, the saudade has become easier to manage. She doesn't feel like she's dying. 

If we are honest, Kiara Carrera is finally thriving. 

She has moved on. 

She has no way of knowing that JJ Maybank is actually very much alive.

Today, for the first time in 2 years, JJ Maybank arrives in Outer Banks.

Chapter Text

Kiara Carrera rises with the sun—or perhaps, the sun rises for her. 

Her mornings are all the same: wake up, freshen up, prepare breakfast (today it’s a simple plant-based ham and cheese sandwich. She makes two, leaving one on the counter), and heads out while the streets of Figure Eight glow in shades of yellow and purple, the early sun shining brightly while the morning still feels untouched, as though the world hasn’t fully awakened. 

She doesn’t mind being one of the first to greet the day.

Work has never been her obsession (being a workaholic is some capitalist bullshit she strongly disapproves), but this is more than work. Saving the environment has always come naturally to her, and that’s what she does, so she wakes up early and doesn’t complain. She knows she’s privileged for being able to dedicate her professional life to one of her passions. Super privileged for being able to do it and still profit greatly from it. 

When Kiara first returned to Outer Banks after the events of Morocco and Portugal, she had no idea what to do with her life. Peering into the future felt like staring into a void; nothing inspired her, nothing motivated her. It wasn’t living, not really. She was merely surviving.

At first, she spiraled. Derailed. Hard . She had to hit rock bottom to claw her way back up. But when she finally saw a glimmer of light at the end of that tunnel, her path became clear. How had it not occurred to her before?

Doing something good. Making a change—it’s what she was meant to do.

The Pogues joined the cause. Together, they now had Poguelandia 3.0 (RIP Poguelandia 2.0. Kiara was still mad at the bank for that one)

Yes, they called it Poguelandia. What else could they name it? It began as a huge and barren plot of land, but now it’s one of the hottest bars/nature reserves/surf shops in Kildare. Its story practically marketed itself: a place inspired by the desolate island where a group of daring teens survived for an entire month, now doubling as a sanctuary for local wildlife? The media loved it. If this were the 2010s, the Pogues would have landed on Ellen.

Kiara is always the first to arrive. She relishes the moments of solitude.

She checks that the night shift staff closed up properly before heading to her sanctuary on the other side of the land. Here, amidst nature, she feels whole.

She’s meant to be here. 

Today, she checks on the sanctuary’s sole resident: a bright little goldfinch with a broken wing. 

She loves goldfinches. Maybe it’s their enthusiastic nature, how tiny they are, or the wild head of yellow feathers. She doesn’t know. She just loves them.

After checking on the little bird, she checks the turtle eggs nestled in the beach sand, replenishes the gift shop inventory, and loses herself in tasks until she realizes it’s already 9:00 a.m. The veterinarian, Candace—a woman no much older than Kiara—arrives right on time. Kiara updates her on the bird’s condition, greets the morning shift staff, and heads back to her car.

Driving through the streets of Figure Eight feels strange. Once, she loathed these roads for their coldness, their inability to feel like home. Now, she crosses them with effortless familiarity, parking outside one of the town’s most expensive restaurants—her mother’s favorite. Family outings always end up here, like today.

Inside, the morning crowd consists mostly of middle-aged women sipping lattes and dissecting other people’s lives with judgmental precision. Several heads turn as Kiara walks in. Her name now carries a weight it didn’t carry before.

And one of those weights is money.

She’s greeted by dazzling white smiles and overly friendly hellos. 

Hi, Kiara! 

How are you, Kiara?

You look amazing today, Kiara!

Let’s catch up soon, Kiara!  

Polite but detached, she nods at them and makes her way to the outdoor seating area, where Anna and Mike Carrera are already waving enthusiastically. Their faces light up—there’s their girl.

— How are you, baby? — Anna rushes to hug her. Kiara gives the usual answer: “Perfect, Mom. And you?” and it is enough. They sit down, beaming at each other, the picture of a happy family.

It’s been years since Anna and Mike orchestrated their daughter’s kidnapping. Yet, looking at them now, no one would guess any kidnappings took place. They smile widely, talk animatedly, and cling to every word Kiara says. Funny, really. As a teen, Kiara had poured her heart out to them countless times, only to be unheard. They heard her words, but they never heard her. Now, they hang on to her every syllable. Desperate to hear her. Desperate to know her. 

They watch her intently, too intently. 

As if scanning for cracks. 

Before, those cracks were impossible to hide. She was so evidently broken. Now, she conceals the cracks with a practiced smile. But they keep searching, bracing themselves for the next time she shatters. 

She doesn’t let them see it. She doesn’t let anyone see her . 

Their conversation drags on. Breakfast ends without incident. Kiara smiles, they smile back. They ask to visit her at home, and she agrees to host dinner on Sunday. They all say goodbye. 

Anna and Mike Carrera are still looking for cracks by the time she disappears inside her car.

///

Kiara is heading to meet the Pogues. They were supposed to meet last Thursday, but Pope was too busy studying for an exam and Cleo decided to stay and help him study. They agreed they would get together the next Thursday, which is today, and Kiara is looking forward to hanging out, even if they hang out at least once per week anyways. Plus the fact they all work together. 

When she arrives at the Chateau, she’s already smiling. She may have changed, but she still feels so happy when she gets to see her friends.

John B hugs her, Sarah runs to her, hugs her tightly, and gushes about little Jackson’s latest milestones. Cleo and Pope flirt unabashedly, so lost in their little bubble of love that they miss her arriving at first. Kiara rolls her eyes, suppressing a laugh. Years in, they still act like lovestruck teenagers.

Settling in the backyard, they sit in a circle of picnic chairs, talking and laughing under the chilly night sky. Yet Kiara feels warm. Looking around at her friends—her family—she’s grateful for this rare and extraordinary love.

She's happy. 

The ache in her chest has dulled lately. It’s still there – it’s always going to be there– but she has learned to see it as something other than sadness. 

Too bad her happy thoughts don’t last long.

— I saw that bitch Ruthie today — Sarah announces. Kiara laughs, surprised by her friend’s bluntness. John B raises his eyebrows.

— Babe, vocabulary — They have a son who has started repeating every word he hears. John B can't have little Jackson saying bitch. 

— Ugh, sorry. But she was a bitch — 

— What did she do? — Pope asks.

Sarah stops, perhaps considering if she should share this. Sarah never hesitates when spilling gossip… unless it’s something that involves Kiara. 

— She said something about me? — Kiara dares to ask. 

 —Yes. It’s her thing lately. You know, because of…—

— What did she say? — Kiara interrupts her before she can finish the sentence. Her tone is casual, unbothered, even if she’s reminded of her hatred for Ruthie. 

— Something about you being a hippie bitch who tries to be the Kook princess because you are finally loaded... among other things —

Kiara laughs. — Turns out Ruthie can be funny sometimes —  She means it. The idea of her wanting to be a Kook princess is hilarious.

— That’s all you’re going to say? —  Pope leans forward, incredulous. As if he cannot believe what he's hearing.

Kiara can tell he’s thinking about past Kiara. 

Past Kiara would have said some not-so-nice things about Ruthie, and promised to teach her a lesson the next time they saw each other. The same Kiara who screamed "Murderer!" at an actual murderer because she just couldn't not speak her mind.

Past Kiara for a reason.

— What else am I supposed to say? — she counters.

— Last time Ruthie messed with you… — Pope begins, but trails off, glancing at John B, whose expression says it all: 

DROP IT.  

Pope gets the hint, stops talking, and Sarah quickly shifts the conversation, regretting having brought up Ruthie at all.

The Pogues introduced an unspoken new rule some time ago: No talking about the Dark Days.

They steer back to lighter topics, but Kiara hates the way they act when the past surfaces—like she’s fragile, like the mere mention of her mistakes or grief might shatter her. She thinks of her parents, how they watch her the same way. Everyone treads carefully, as if she’s made of glass. Looking for cracks. Always looking for cracks.

She’s survived too much, lost too much, and rebuilt too much to be treated like she might crumble at any second.

But maybe they’ll never stop seeing her like that.

Once the evening comes to an end, she says her goodbyes, and leaves as fast as she can. 

She drives home, and the bad mood takes over. She wants to scream or cry or both, but she has long lost the energy to do any of those things. When she parks her car in the driveway, she just wants to go to bed, fall asleep, and wake up with the sun. The sun doesn’t think she cannot handle anything. The turtles and the little goldfinch actually rely on her. They think she’s capable of not breaking.

As she makes her way around the house, she misses the figure lying on the couch, channel surfing with evident tediousness.

— You aren’t going to say hi? —

The familiar voice startles her, and she almost yelps. Her heart races as she turns to see him sprawled on the couch, smirking at her reaction.

Blue eyes lock onto hers.

— Why do you always have to scare me? —  she demands, placing a hand over her chest to calm her erratic heartbeat.

— Not my fault you don’t look for me when you come home — he replies, his tone teasing but his gaze unwavering.

— I thought you’d be in bed —

— Wanted to wait for you — He shrugs, sitting up with ease. His hands reach for her, and she lets him guide her onto his lap, her body fitting against his. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something he does when he wants to talk, but doesn’t know how. 

Their faces are inches apart now, and the air between them hums with unspoken emotion. His piercing gaze roams her face. 

He’s also searching for cracks.

The good thing about Rafe is that she can call him out.

— I’m fine — she says firmly and annoyed. 

— I didn’t say anything — he defends, raising his hands in mock surrender. — But I haven’t seen you all day. You left too early… Could’ve woken me up —

He leans forward, his hands settling on her lower back. The warmth of his touch seeps into her, grounding her. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls her closer, erasing the small distance between them.

His lips brush against hers—soft, tentative, but deliberate. The kiss deepens, and she feels the quiet intensity behind it, as if he’s trying to piece her together with every gentle movement. 

— Missed you, Kie — he whispers, his voice low and laced with emotion. His eyes travel to her face once again.

And he sees the cracks.

////////

Stupid decisions sometimes lead to good outcomes.

JJ Maybank has never been one for fancy places. High ceilings, antique artwork, and carpets softer than anything his bare feet have ever touched? They scream exclusivity, the kind of life he’s never lived, nor ever wanted to. Yet here he is, standing in the kind of room where important people greet each other like old friends, their laughter and handshakes echoing off Greek arches and red-carpeted floors.

He doesn’t belong here.

He knows it. They know it. But here he is anyway—inside the US Embassy in Portugal, sitting in the Consul's dispatch. 

When they first told him that’s who he was meeting, JJ nearly asked, "What the fuck is a Consul?"  He knew embassies had ambassadors (duh), but he knew nothing about Consuls. Were Consuls good? Or was it a fancy word for embassy sheriff? Embassy dictator? A person JJ should fear? As they led him to the ornate office, he kept his questions to himself, unsure what to expect and too exhausted to care.

The Consul finally shows up two hours later, his air of importance as obvious as the curious glances he throws JJ’s way. JJ feels like an intruder in his borrowed clothes and worn sneakers, a misfit who doesn’t even bother trying to blend in. He knows he’s an imposter, and he’s just waiting for everyone else to figure it out, too.

The Consul talks with the staff who brought JJ in, their hushed tones punctuated by not-so-subtle looks in his direction. They leave and return sporadically, sometimes disappearing for over an hour. Each time, JJ braces for the worst. Surely, they’ll call the Portuguese police. Maybe even alert the EU authorities. They’ll deport him back to Morocco or Egypt or wherever else they think he belongs.

If it’s not obvious– JJ Maybank has been around the block these past two years.

After hours of waiting, a kind-looking woman appears with a literal silver tray and offers him orange juice and a sandwich. JJ accepts without hesitation, devouring the food without a shred of decorum. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s not to pass up a free meal. The days he spent surviving on sugared water still keep him food anxious.

Eventually, JJ is summoned to the Consul’s inner office, a space somehow grander than the one before. He’s grilled by a group of important-looking diplomats who don’t bother hiding their skepticism. JJ sticks to the story Antonio drilled into his head: he’d traveled to Portugal on a boat with unreliable buddies, gotten lost, and realized his passport hadn’t been stamped at customs. That’s why he came to the embassy—for help.

He emphasizes the critical part over and over: I’m an American citizen. I need help. I’m an American citizen. You are supposed to help me.

They don’t buy it. Not entirely, anyway. Without a valid passport stamp, JJ doesn’t officially exist in Portugal. He doesn’t tell them the truth—that he’d been in Morocco (illegally), then Egypt (illegally), then Greece, Italy, France and Spain (illegally, of course), before finally sneaking into Portugal, where he’d come looking for a man he wanted to kill.

The Consul doesn’t need to know that.

JJ produces fake boat tickets and his very real passport, spinning the carefully crafted story with a confidence that doesn't illustrate what he's really thinking. He can tell they’re suspicious. Antonio said it would all be fine, but JJ didn't take his word for granted.

For now, they send him to a fancy hotel and tell him to stay put while they verify his information. The hotel is absurdly nice, with more amenities than JJ can even process, but he’s too strung out to enjoy any of it. Fear gnaws at him constantly. What if they catch him? What if they throw him in jail, and he never sees the sun again?

And by sun he means her. 

These past two years have been hell. From waking up buried alive in the sand to escaping country after country. He worked himself to the bone in Morocco and Egypt, more than a year just to earn enough money to pay the smugglers who ferried him across the Mediterranean. Each step of the journey felt like a gamble with his life, and he’s still not sure how he survived.

He’d come to Portugal seeking revenge. He had heard Groff had made Lisbon into his new headquarters. 

That part didn't go along to plan.

The problem was, no matter how hard JJ searched, Groff was nowhere to be found. Gone. Vanished. He had taken off with all his money, plus money he owed to dozens of other crime bosses, and was never seen again. 

That's how JJ met Antonio. Word got around that Chandler Groff’s son— whom he had tried to kill— was looking for him. Looking for revenge. Groff’s former criminal friends felt bad. He was just a kid, and he had been through hell and back. Antonio found him one day sleeping on the streets. He had taken a look at JJ, shook his head, and told him:

— You don’t belong here —

If not rotting on the streets, where did he belong? 

Antonio allowed him to stay in his lavish mansion and spent the next two months calling important people, managing to get JJ a real passport –which was even "issued" years before to match the dates– and a good foundation for the story he was meant to tell the Consul. 

He told JJ he had people in the embassy that could help him. Of course, JJ doubted. He had been betrayed before, far too many times to remember them all. But he had no other options. Antonio didn't dare smuggle him all the way from Portugal to the US (Even that level of connections was out of his reach) so JJ had to accept Antonio’s initial plan and headed to the embassy, six months after he first set foot in Portugal. 

And now, here he is, stuck in limbo, too afraid to hope. Too broken to hope for something else. 

Because hope leads to thoughts of her. Sweet, painful memories of her smile, her laugh, her lips, her love for him. He tries not to think about her, but he fails. Every fucking time, he fails.

On the fourth day in the hotel, the embassy lady calls him to the hotel lobby. She greets him with a genuine smile that throws him off entirely.

— We checked everything, and it’s all cleared — she says.

JJ blinks, confused. — What? —

— The staff at the docks confirmed their mistake. You’re good to go —

— Huh? —

— You’re going home, JJ. —

Home. The word makes his chest tighten. What the hell is home? Outer Banks? The place where he was treated like garbage? His dad’s house, where fists spoke louder than words?

Home isn’t a place. 

It’s a person. 

But JJ can’t say that out loud.

The Consul demands an address and a contact person to confirm his arrival. JJ panics. He realizes he can’t say her name, or the name of one of the Pogues. 

Firstly, they had committed a lot of crimes. What if Pope is still wanted by the police? What if he gets them in trouble? They had all come to Morocco illegally. How did they leave? Had they left legally, or illegally? He doesn’t know what’s worse.  He doesn’t want to fuck up. Not anymore. 

And secondly, he just can’t. He can’t give her name. Fucking hell, he can't say any of their names. He never allowed himself to picture an end to his Odyssey, and now he’s so fucking scared. Everything it's so real now. He feels the walls closing in.

He can't fucking breathe.

He can’t see them yet. Not like this. He can’t do this to them. He just can't.

He cannot face it. 

— Eh… I don’t think there’s someone you can call —

— No one? Are you sure? — The Consul asks. He feels genuinely bad for the boy. His buddies abandoned him, he’s clearly been living on the streets, and he doesn’t have anyone to meet him after months of being away. 

— They just have to pick you up at the airport, JJ. That’s it —

Just an airport pick-up. Nothing major. No biggie.

JJ then does something stupid.

Stupid decisions always have good outcomes. 

He hopes that's true at least this one time.

A few hours later, Barracuda Mike gets the oddest call of his life.

Chapter Text

Today, Kiara wakes up feeling amazing. 

Not good, not great—fucking amazing. Yesterday had been a fantastic day, and for Kiara, that was saying something. Dinner with her parents had gone smoothly. No fights, no awkward silences stretching long enough to strangle her. Just food, laughter, and a rare sense of peace.

Rafe had volunteered to cook. He always did it for family dinners. She’d lounged on the patio while he made food for the four of them, the late afternoon sun warming her face. The wind carried over the scent of saltwater. The day unmistakably Kildare . When her parents showed up, they brought dessert—tiramisu, which was her favorite. That alone had improved her day considerably. 

Anna went into the kitchen to help Rafe while Mike, relieved of chef duties for once, joined Kiara in the patio. They’d passed the time talking about The Wreck and Poguelandia and laughing at Anna’s obvious favoritism towards Rafe. Kiara had even teased her mom about it “You like him more than you like me!” to which her mom replied “At least he helps with dinner!” Ok, fair enough. 

By the time the food was served, the four of them were sitting outside under a sky that started to turn shades of purple and dark blue. The day just felt right. No one was walking on eggshells. 

Kiara could finally breathe . 

Anna had told Kiara how proud she was at least five times over the course of the evening. Kiara had waved it off each time, acting as if her mother embarrassed her, but secretly, she treasured it. Her mother’s praise wasn’t something she was used to—or, if she was honest, something she’d ever stopped craving, mommy issues and all. Mike had joined in, and suddenly they were talking about how amazing she was, how far she had come, how proud everyone was . What can Kiara say? Finally being told she was doing things right was a dream come true.

As they were clearing the table, Kiara’s mom pulled out a gift bag. Kiara raised a curious brow as her mom reached inside and pulled out a baby pajama suit, soft as a cloud and undoubtedly expensive.

— Mom, what’s this? —  Kiara asked, half-joking, half-freaking out — Don’t tell me this is your subtle way of asking for grandkids… or telling me I am going to be a big sister —

— I'm not crazy, Kiara.... I went to Charleston a few days ago and saw this. Thought Sarah and John B might like it for Jackson —

Ah. That made sense. Sarah would absolutely adore it, no question. Kiara could already picture her reaction—squeals, jumping up and down, phone in hand as she calls Anna and says thank you thank you . Sarah and John B weren’t shy about wanting the best of the best for Jackson. Montessori-approved toys, a wooden handcrafted crib, expensive clothes (“They last more and it’s good for the environment!” they explained when Kiara called them out for acting like Kooks) Yes, Sarah would love this. Kiara smiled, and told her mom she would give it to them and let them know her mom had sent it. 

Her parents had grown fond of the Pogues. Years of rejecting their daughter’s friends had ended once they saw how they rallied around Kiara after JJ’s death. Now they bought the Pogues gifts and sent their regards and if they ever encountered one of the kids around the island they would offer a free lunch, or a ride back home. They would constantly ask and rejoice about little Jackson, smiling proudly whenever they found out he had reached a new milestone. They bought him gifts he wouldn’t remember, offered to babysit just in case they were needed, and deep down, they hoped they could be the older, present figures in his life. The boy didn’t have a single grandparent around. 

Every child deserves a village .

Sometimes (in secret, never aloud) they thought about the wild little boy who had carried the same name. The boy who was always there, even when unwanted, until one day he wasn’t.

Mike and Anna Carrera would never admit to their daughter the extent of their regret. So instead, they channeled their attention into little Jackson Routledge. Helping the young family made them happy, and it made Kiara even happier. They cared. All she ever wanted was for her parents to accept and care for her Pogues. 

The evening ended quickly. After her parents left, Kiara and Rafe caught the rest of the show they had been binging. She doesn’t remember falling asleep, and she doesn’t remember making her way to bed, but once she wakes up, rays of sunshine flood the room, soft and golden. Still half-asleep, she checks her phone. 8:14. She usually wakes up much earlier, but right now, she doesn’t care. Instead, she flips her pillow to the cool side, a small, victorious smile tugging at her lips, enjoying the serenity. She has decided this will be a lazy morning. 

Remembering how Rafe is always telling her to wake him up with her, she extends her arm and nudges him awake. He groans, predictably, but cracks an eye open just to give her that sleepy half-smirk that against her wishes, kinda turns her on. One moment their tired gazes are locked, the next moment, Rafe closes the space between them, positioning himself above her. His arms frame her face, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that is both urgent and tender. They spend the next 20 minutes having sweet and slow morning sex, until they are both breathing heavily and gasping for air. They finally leave the bed, take a totally innocent shower, and once she makes her way to the kitchen, she decides this is the kind of day for pancakes. 

The pancakes lead to pleasant conversation, which leads to teasing, which leads to Rafe leaning over the counter to kiss her. Before she knows it, their clothes are flying. She has to shower again, but it’s worth it. Grinning as she steps out into the sunshine, the day practically waving at her.

When she arrives at Poguelandia, she finds Pope and Cleo already there. Cleo’s perched on the bar, legs swinging as she laughs at something Pope says. They’re like a matched set. Wherever one is, the other follows. It’s been that way for years, and seeing them like this—happy, effortless—makes her heart swell. She’s never told them, but she’s so glad they found each other. 

— Hi, guys —  she calls out, sliding onto one of the barstools — Weird seeing you two here so early —

— Get used to it, Kie. Exams are officially over. I’m free again — Pope says, beaming and evidently proud of himself. Kiara assumes that means he aced everything.

Pope has been a little MIA lately, buried under the weight of finals. His first year of college is nearing its close, and pre-med has swallowed him whole, dragging him away from Pogue hangouts. Sometimes he spends his days like a zombie, his energy spent entirely on studying, commuting, and working. Even when he joins them at the Chateau or somewhere else, his friends can tell he's seconds away from burnout. 

The irony, Kiara thinks, is that Pope doesn't need to work himself to the bone like this. After rebuilding Poguelandia for the second time, the Pogues had agreed to give Pope his share of the profits, enough to live a normal life without ever lifting another finger. The business was thriving. They’d hired their first employees, there were four of them always on call, plus Rafe, who would come and help as long as Kiara asked him. 

Pope refused, of course. He was Heyward’s son, through and through. He refused to be just a passive business owner. Of all the people Kiara knows, he works the hardest. He deserves a break.

Now, finally, he has one. And for that alone, Kiara is thankful.

The three Pogues spend the next hours working side by side. They saw each other only days ago, so there wasn’t much catching up to do, yet they always find something to talk about. Kiara leads them to the sanctuary, which is busier than it was the previous Thursday. Two baby turtles nestled in a tank, four birds chirp softly from their cages, and two cats sleeping while Candace examines another patient.

The cats are not strays. A few months back, Kiara had started offering free services to families with pets from the Cut. It made her anxious, knowing what had happened the last time they didn’t handle their funds with a cold capitalist mindset, but Rafe had taken over the Cameron businesses and he was bringing in ridiculous amounts of money. He knew how much animals meant to her, so he had offered to cover the medical expenses of any non-wild animal that was brought into the sanctuary. 

Even John B was happily impressed when he had heard about Rafe’s gesture, and to this day, he isn't exactly Rafe's biggest fan. 

By the time lunch rolls around, Poguelandia is packed. Kiara scans the crowd but cannot spot Pope or Cleo amid the bustling sea of faces. Just as she is debating having lunch with Candace, her phone buzzes with a message.

Sarah:
“Wanna come over for lunch? John B left for some Cameron family business shit, and I NEED to talk to an adult. I love my son, but he knows like 30 words”

Laughing, Kiara replies with a quick “OMW” and lets Candace know she’d be out for a while. She drives the 5 minute distance to the Chateau 2.0, and once she arrives, Sarah is already waiting on the porch, baby Jackson cradled in her arms. The moment Kiara’s car pulls up, Sarah’s face lights up with joy. 

— Thank you so so much for coming —  Sarah exclaims as Kiara steps out of the car. She looks down at Jackson, who is too busy trying to eat a strand of his mom’s hair — I was going insane — 

Kiara rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Sarah Cameron had always had a flair for the dramatic. — You know I’m always happy to come. But Sarah, you can hire a nanny. It’s not like y’all can’t afford it — 

Sarah gives her a look as though she’d suggested the unthinkable. It’s a result of the Dark Day s that Sarah doesn’t even recognize on herself. She has grown fiercely protective, unable to leave Jackson with anyone who isn't family—Pogue family or in one single occasion, Rafe and Wheezie. When John B is out on Cameron family business, Sarah turns into a nervous wreck, pacing by the windows, heart clenched tight until she sees the Twinkie’s headlights cutting through the distance. And when Kiara smiles less brightly than usual, or says something even slightly concerning, the screws in Sarah’s head start turning like crazy, considering all the worst scenarios.

Always worrying. She never stops worrying.

Inside, the aroma of freshly cooked food greets Kiara. Both Sarah and John B had surprised everyone by becoming pretty decent cooks. Not Cleo-level good, of course, but certainly on par with Kiara herself. They eat in the living room, with Bluey playing on the TV to entertain Jackson. He’s utterly captivated, giggling at the screen and pointing excitedly.

— Mama! Auntie Kie! Look! — 

— I’m looking, baby! —

— What does he want us to look at? — Kiara asks, low enough for Jackson not to hear.

— I have no idea —

They laugh together, their confusion seeming to amuse Jackson, who soon turns his wide-eyed gaze back to the show.

— He loves this damn show — Sarah whispers conspiratorially. — I let him watch one episode a day, nothing else yet. Don’t want him turning into some iPad kid. —

Kiara smirks. — It’s a TV, though. Does it count as a screen? —

— Oh my God, Kie. Of course it does! The American Academy of Pediatrics says no screen time at this age. But, — Sarah continues, lowering her voice as if revealing a great secret, — John B read on a mommy blog that Bluey is good for emotional development. We discussed if we should cut out Bluey for good, or let him continue watching just one episode, and… —

Kiara tunes out as Sarah launches into a half-hour monologue about screen time, babies, and Bluey . She cannot help but smile as Sarah turns off the TV, only for Jackson to stage a tiny, determined rebellion. He is too mild for a full tantrum but far too spirited to accept the perceived injustice without protest.

Watching them together, Kiara feels a pang of something she cannot quite name. She had worried, once, about whether her friends were ready to raise a child. But seeing them now, she couldn’t imagine doubting them. They try so hard to be good parents. And they are. They are still kids themselves, yet they do so well, somehow. She cannot remember her own parents caring this much. But John B and Sarah, they care about absolutely everything. It would be annoying if their son wasn’t so cute.

After lunch, Jackson drifts into a nap. Sarah carries him to his room, then joins Kiara in the backyard, choosing a spot by a window so she can keep watch over her sleeping son. 

They watch the landscape in silence for a moment. The day continues with its beauty, and not too far away, right there on the beach, a group of four kids play freely, their laughter echoing.

Kiara closes her eyes, and suddenly she’s back to the 2010s. She’s running wild and climbing trees and playing by the shore, a playful boy laughing right by her side. She smiles. If she concentrates well enough, she can almost feel like he’s real. 

Too absorbed by her thoughts, she doesn’t notice Sarah staring at her. 

— You are glowing — Her friend finally says, and Kiara looks at her, confused. 

— Huh? —

— You are glowing, dude — Sarah smiles at her. Her expression holds something between love and proudness. That’s it. She seems proud, for some reason — You look happy. I mean it —

— I feel happy — Kiara simply agrees. 

— I can tell. You are literally glowing, like holy shit — She stops for a second. Something dawns on her. Whatever it is, it’s not good, because she quickly makes a face of utter disgust — Oh my God. You are sex glowing —

— Sex glowing? — 

— Ewww . Yes, you are. You totally had sex today — She covers her ears with her hands. Kiara laughs at the strange and comical change in mood of her friend. She laughs even harder over the fact Sarah is covering her ears — Shut up! —

— I’m not talking, Sarah! — Kiara doubles over, failing miserably at containing her laughter. Man, Sarah Cameron can be so weird. — Besides, you have a son . So unless you are like the next Virgin Mary, you can’t slutshame me —

— But you are dating my brother! That’s gross, Kie. Why would you do this to me? —

— You are the one who said I was sex glowing — Kiara continues laughing, too entertained by Sarah’s little crisis. It wasn’t the first. In fact, she had lost count of the times Sarah Cameron had a crisis over Kiara and Rafe dating. At first, she was genuinely against it. Concerned because her brother had been a fucking psycho up until recently. To be honest, all the Pogues had kinda lost it when they found out about her and Rafe. She couldn’t blame them. At first, she kinda lost it herself. 

— I’m going to gaslight myself into thinking you haven’t even held hands. Point is, you look good… I’m happy you are happy — 

— You are such a pussy — 

Sarah fake acts being offended, and then they are both laughing now, aware of the absurdness of their conversation.

Kiara knows Sarah is being truthful, She’s actually glowing. She can feel it. She has been floating on a cloud of happiness, and everyday she feels like this could be the new normal. That the ache in her chest could dissipate, overpowered by something else.

Yet, sometimes, like in this very moment, she also feels guilty. She looks at the empty chair beside her. She imagines who would be occupying it in another universe. In another outcome. Another laugh right besides her. They wouldn’t be talking about Rafe, oh God, of course not. She wouldn’t be looking ahead, at the landscape; she would be looking at the person right besides her. She wouldn’t need to travel to the 2010s to remember his playful laugh. She could look to the right, and she would be met with the ocean in his eyes.

She can still hear the kids playing. It’s like she can almost hear him. 

The problem is this: Kiara spent so much time buried in sorrow, not believing she would ever feel better, that now that she is presented with the chance of moving on, she doesn’t know if she wants to.

She’s tired of the sorrow, but at the same time, she doesn’t want to leave the sorrow behind.

Because her sorrow has a name.

— Can I talk to you about something? —

— Always, Kie — Sarah turns to face her, and her smile immediately drops when she sees the seriousness in her best friend's face. It’s a face she has seen before. She knows what’s coming. 

— I feel happy, Sarah. I do feel like I am glowing, but… —

— But? —

— But I feel guilty . Don’t you ever… I mean don’t you guys ever feel guilty too? I feel guilty for feeling happy when JJ is not here, you know?. I feel guilty because it’s like… We have new lives… I used to picture my future all the time, Sarah. I still don’t understand how he’s not part of it —

— Sometimes it feels like I am betraying JJ. I swear it fuckign feels like it —

— No. No, no, no. Oh… Kie — Worry. Worry all over her eyes — Listen, I don’t think… I don’t think he would want you living in the past…. I think he’s happy you moved on —

— I haven’t moved on… I mean, I have, but I haven’t. You know?  — She stops, lowering her gaze to where her hands rest on her lap — I don’t think I will ever move on, Sarah. Not truly —

— Oh… Oh… I see. But it’s better, right? Right, Kie? It’s better now. It’s better —

Sarah is pleading right now. She wants Kiara to tell her, yes, it’s better. Yes, I feel much better . Kiara knows. She feels even more guilty now, because she knows Sarah is freaking out. She should have lied. She should have said she has moved on. 

— Kie…. I think he… he wouldn’t want you to feel guilty — 

Kiara doesn’t miss how Sarah avoids telling his name. She finds herself closing her eyes, now pleading herself. Say his name, Sarah. Just once. Say his name. 

 — He would want you to move on —

Kiara just nods, not wanting to ruin the moment more. 

They sit in silence for a while, except the silence is no longer pleasant. 

After a few moments, Sarah speaks again. 

 —Anyways… How was dinner Sunday with your parents and Rafe? — She sounds so frail and scared, but Kiara cannot help but feel angry –fucking angry- at her best friend. She knows it’s wrong, but she feels it all the same. 

What the fuck, Cameron?

What does she have to change the subject?

Why can’t she say JJ’s name?

The worst thing is that it’s not just Sarah. 

John B is perhaps even worse than her. Whenever anyone, especially people who aren’t part of their group mentions JJ, he looks at them furiously, as if they had just said something truly awful. Kiara can say his name, and he will look at her like she’s lost her damn mind.  

Then there’s Cleo, who looks at her with pity. Cleo, who had to raise herself in the streets, Cleo the orphan, looks at her with pity. She would rather Sarah’s avoidance or John B’s anger over Cleo Anderson’s pity. 

And finally there’s Pope, who just seems sad. If Kiara tries to talk about JJ, Pope lowers his gaze and nods at whatever she’s saying, sadly. 

No one will talk about him. Okay, she knows she fucked up, the whole depression thing wasn’t cute, but it sucks that they can’t have a conversation about him. Why? Why is it an issue? Why can’t they just talk about him? Say hey remember when JJ did this?  

Remember when JJ would say this? 

Yeah, he was so funny. 

Yeah, I miss him. 

Me too. I fucking miss him so much. 

Yeah, he was amazing.

Yes, he was perfect. 

What was wrong with that? 

She just wants to talk about him. No, quit that, she wants to talk to him, but that will never happen again. She lost all the future conversations. Everything she wanted to say to him. She cannot speak with him, so she wants to speak about him. Maybe then he’ll hear her. He’ll hear them. And he’ll know about every unspoken feeling and thought. But their friends just can’t even say his name, and wherever he is right now, she doesn’t want JJ to think they are forgetting him. 

The world could end one hundred times, yet she could never, ever forget about him. 

The truth is, she doesn’t want to move on and leave him in the past. She wants to bring him over to the future. Make sure he’s present. Make sure he’s there in the conversations, in the afternoons while looking at the sunset. She wants him riding waves with them during Dawn Patrol. He wants him in the sanctuary, managing the surf shop. She wants Jackson to know his name. Uncle JJ to be there. Not there physically, but still there. Always there. 

She doesn’t want to let go of his hand. 

JJ Maybank. She doesn’t want to stop saying his name.

He was perfect. 

/////////

JJ Maybank stands awkwardly at the pickup entrance of the airport, his feet shifting nervously against the polished floor. Beside him is a stiff, no-nonsense dude from the US Embassy, who has been sent along as a chaperone “just in case.” JJ can feel the unspoken judgment radiating off the man. They probably thought he is THAT dumb enough to wander off and end up stranded in another foreign country if left to his own devices. 

His backpack straps are fraying at the edges, and he tugs at one of the zippers obsessively, the movement sharp and erratic. The embassy guy casts him a suspicious glance but says nothing. The silence weighs on him, broken only by the distant buzz of the arrivals board and the occasional scrape of luggage wheels against the floor. JJ’s eyes dart anxiously to the doors, his stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. He has made a lot of shitty decisions in his life, but this… this might make it to the top 10.

He’s waiting for a man JJ knows to be unreliable and messy. Back then at the Consul’s dispatch, he thought Barracuda Mike was his best option, but now, he’s feeling more and more stupid about his decision. He should have told the Consul there was no one. No one. His life was THAT shitty. The Consul would have offered him some money for the taxi and everything would have been alright.

What if Barracuda Mike comes and tells him “Sup! Thought you were dead hahaha ” That would be awkward as hell. On the other hand, what if he acts like he has no idea JJ was dead? What if his friends didn’t even care anymore? What if they’d moved on and forgotten about him entirely?

What if they never made their way back to Kildare?

JJ clenches his jaw, biting back the rising tide of panic. He knows he's being overly dramatic, but given the last two years of his life, he figures he has earned the right. His thoughts are racing when the doors slide open, and a man walks in. JJ blinks.

Clean pants. A fucking blazer.  The smirk on Mike’s face is unmistakable, though, and as he approaches, JJ can see the glint of mischief in his eyes.

— Hello, Maybank —

JJ freezes. Barracuda Mike extends his hand to the dude from the US embassy and introduces himself as a family friend.

— So, JJ… What a journey you’ve had, huh? — 

JJ smiles nervously, but the dude from the embassy doesn’t seem to care about whatever drama there’s between the two men. He quickly says goodbye with utmost courtesy (JJ catches Mike suppressing a mocking smirk, and has to suppress the urge of telling him to shut up), and then the man disappears inside the airport, no doubt ready to take the first plane to New York and then make the final flight back to Lisbon. 

Once he’s gone, JJ’s attention turns back to Mike. He can tell the man is both judging him and pitying him. 

— It’s kind’ weird — Starts Barracuda Mike, looking closely at him, as if checking that’s actually him, and this is not some evil identical twin situation — One day you hear Luke Maybank’s kid died in some weird ass circumstances, and two years later, you pick him up from the airport —

JJ rolls his eyes. He doesn’t want to discuss this with Barracuda Mike. He doesn’t want to talk about shit, at all, so instead he says what he actually wants to say for once — Shut up, Mike. —  It feels good—briefly freeing—but he braces himself for the fallout.

Mike doesn't react the way JJ expected. He just tiltes his head, his expression unreadable, before shrugging. — Let’s go, kid. It’s a two-hour drive back to the Outer Banks. I’d rather spend this beautiful day away from tourists. —  He glances pointedly at the swarm of people rushing past. Then, arching an eyebrow, he adds, — That’s where you’re headed, right? — 

JJ nods, a lump forming in his throat.

The drive is mostly quiet, except for Mike’s ramblings. He talks about getting the call—“surreal,” he says—and then launches into a monologue about AI and voice cloning, as if he is the first person to find out about it. JJ barely listens, staring out the window as familiar landscapes blurred by. When they cross into North Carolina, his stomach churns, and by the time they pass the billboard welcoming them to Kildare, he thinks he might actually be sick.

The salty air hits him like a punch to the gut, filling his lungs with memories he cannot bear to face. Everything sounds, seems, and smells the same, yet everything sounds, seems, and smells differently. JJ sees the same houses, plus a few new apartment complexes, because this is Outer Banks after all. He sees people walking, people he may know, but he can’t catch their faces. If he’s all the same, why does he feel like an alien? Why doesn’t he feel like part of the island? He’s as native as they come, yet he feels like an unwanted tourist, or perhaps an immigrant, and then he remembers his time as an actual illegal immigrant without a name or identity. That had sucked. 

He isn’t the same person, and as crazy as it sounds, it’s like Kildare knows it. The island looks at him, puzzled. Luke Maybank’s kid? No. That 's not him. That kid died. He’s Chandler Groff’s son, who also died. 

A dead boy alive. 

A boy who knew hell on Earth. 

And now he 's here. Outer Banks. Paradise on Earth. 

It’s fucking up his head.

Barracuda Mike doesn’t have to ask him if he has somewhere to stay. He knows that if JJ didn’t call those Pogues of him, then he has nowhere to go. They drive to his house, the same old shack where his father hid. JJ wonders where he is, but Mike doesn’t offer and he’s not going to ask. 

Once they get to Mike house, he tells JJ he can sleep on the couch while he figures out what to do next. He asks Mike to use the bathroom and barely makes it before he vomits into the toilet. He hears Mike complain, but doesn’t care. Better here than on Mike’s couch. 

Once he’s finished emptying the contents of his stomach, he basically plummets against the floor, his back to the wall, his breathing heavy. He stays there for a while, both for what feels like seconds and hours. He thinks he’s having a panic attack, but he doesn’t recognize this type of panic attack. Desperate for something to ground him, he concentrates on the cold feel of the bathroom tiles against his skin, and it works in bringing him comfort. 

Once his heart rhythm calms down, he makes his best effort to get up, wash his face and mouth, and leaves the bathroom feeling different yet again. 

He 's not well. He knows it. He’s probably very unwell. But he’s been there, done that, and there’s nothing that can stop JJ Maybank. 

Not even death.

Yes, he may be delirious, he may be freaking out, but he knows what he wants. He has always known it. He knows it even when high, even when almost blackout drunk. He has known it even before he knew who he was. He knew it when he opened his eyes and felt the sand around him. 

He knew it when he died. 

JJ Maybank has only ever wanted her . And he’s finally here, and there’s nothing to stop him from getting what he wants. 

From getting to her . 

This isn’t home yet. It’s not going to be okay until he gets to her and holds her. That’s all he wants to do. To hold her and for her to hold him like she did countless times and it’ll all be alright. He knows it will. Once she touches him and tells him she loves him, all the pain will be gone. Even his darkest sorrows will dissipate. 

He walks to the door, missing Mike sprawled on the couch, a beer in hand. He doesn't even glance up as JJ makes for the door handle. 

— Where do you think you are going, kid? —

JJ considers telling him, but he figures Mike doesn’t need to know shit. 

— Doesn’t concern ya’ —

Mike sighs, long and weary

— Look, kid. I’m not going to involve myself in your shit — He starts, and he sounds oddly honest for a conman — But Outer Banks has changed. You might not find out there what you think you will find — 

JJ is not puzzled by Mike’s words. He knows the island has changed. He knows people have changed. He doesn’t expect the world to have stopped while he was away. He has thought about Poguelandia, the place they built, and probably lost. He thinks about his father, who was hiding from the law. He thinks about his friends. John B and Sarah were expecting a baby. He has thought about their child, his niece or nephew. He thinks about Pope, who was in trouble with the law. 

The only thing he has not thought of, the thing he has not tried to guess— perhaps because he doesn’t dare imagine anything bleak — is what has happened to Kiara. 

His girl . 

He knows she would have been affected by his death, but he doesn’t dare think beyond that. Everytime he hears her cry as she holds his dying body, her sobs as his life slipped away, he screams at himself to stop. Stop. Fucking stop, JJ. 

Don’t go there.

Of course the island has changed.

But whatever happened will be alright as long as he gets to her. Barracuda Mike won’t understand. No one can understand, but JJ knows he'll be alright. He remembers when she would hug him tightly after his dad beat him into a pulp. He remembers how she would take care of his injuries and his bloodied face. He remembered how she would cup his face in her hands, and whisper ever so lowly, so only they would get to hear.

It will be alright, Jage. I’ve got you. 

It will be right. 

Without replying to Barracuda Mike, JJ opens the door.

For the first time in two years, JJ Maybank steps into Outer Banks. 

Chapter Text

It starts Tuesday morning. 

She arrives at Poguelandia, ready for another day, only to find the place void of her friends. It’s odd. She got there late and Pope and Cleo had promised to be the first ones the day before. But maybe something had come up. Pope, especially, seems to be always busy. If it isn't Poguelandia and it isn't school, it’s his parents needing a hand. So yeah, it isn’t weird, not at first. 

What follows, though—that is another story.

Kiara keeps herself busy through the morning. By the time the clock hits 1 p.m., she realizes she’s been waiting for Sarah to text her about lunch, or waiting for one of the Pogues to arrive. But lunch hour comes and goes, and —nothing.

It still isn’t weird. Pogues are hardly known for sticking to plans. They take days off whenever they want. It’s one of the benefits of being your own boss and all.

Although usually when they don’t show up, they drop a message in the group chat.

Nothing today though. Not a word.

By mid-afternoon, she gives in and sends a message:

“who is coming to Poguelandia today?” No one replies.

By 5 p.m., Kiara is more than ready to clock out, but she can’t leave. The bar manager has a day off and she needs to leave one of the Pogues in charge. It’s already 6 p.m. when she finally spots Pope’s car pulling into the lot. She hurries to say goodbye to the bar staff and walks outside. She isn’t surprised when she sees Cleo stepping out of the car.

No, she’s surprised by Cleo herself.

Kiara isn’t the most observant person. She’s also not the most aware. That’s Sarah. Sarah is the one who takes the crown for being able to pick up on the tiniest shifts in other people’s moods. She has a weird way of knowing what someone is feeling before that person figures it out themselves. But Kiara? She’s not the kind of person who immediately knows when the vibes are off or whatever. Well, she once was, but it was with one single person. The person she could read like a book, even from afar, even when apart. The person she won’t get to see again.

Other people though? Cleo Anderson especially? Nope. She cannot read Cleo Anderson. She just can’t.

But this?

She doesn’t need to be Sarah to immediately know something is off .

The way Cleo moves toward her—slow, deliberate, as if Kiara that might shatter at any moment—freaks her out. And her eyes, the look on her face… Kiara knows that look. It’s the look people gave her when JJ died. Cleo used to give her that look all the time. The look that says you poor thing. You poor, sad Kie.

She hasn’t seen that look in a long time. But here it is, back again. Heavy and suffocating.

Just like that, one Tuesday afternoon, the look comes back.

What the fuck?

— Hi — Cleo says, not quite meeting her gaze, like she just can’t stand to look Kiara in the eyes. 

— Hi… I was starting to think no one was coming. —

The words sound brittle even to herself.

And Cleo just stares at her with her big and pitying eyes, saying nothing. Saying absolutely nothing. 

— Where were you, anyway? — Kiara asks, her tone a little sharper than she intends. Why isn’t Cleo replying? — Is Pope coming today? —

Cleo stares at her some more. She definitely has a look. It’s so obvious Kiara can’t help but acknowledge it. It’s as if Cleo isn’t even trying to hide it, or as if the pity is just too much—so much pity—that she can’t hide it. Kiara doesn’t know what’s better or what’s worse. 

She also doesn’t know what she has done to deserve Cleo’s pity. 

She’s happy again, fucking finally. She’s working hard, she has a great relationship with her parents, and things with Rafe are going just well .

And then she thinks about the conversation she had with Sarah the day before.

That’s it , she thinks. Sarah must have told Cleo—and probably Pope and John B, too—about what she said. About the guilt she admitted to still feeling. That has to be it. She can’t see Sarah gossiping about her behind her back, but then again, the Pogues sometimes treat her like a group project. If Kiara spiraled, then they all magically find out, and they all try to fix her in their own ways.

That’s it, right?

Cleo must notice Kiara freaking out because she finally speaks.

— Sorry, girl. Providers kept me busy all day. Pope’s coming later. Our apartment’s electricity went out, and he had to deal with the landlord. —

Oh. So that’s it.

Maybe she misread the look on Cleo’s face. Or maybe there was a look, but it wasn’t pity. And even if it was pity, it likely has more to do with JJ’s second death anniversary creeping closer.

Still, the weirdness doesn’t end there.

The following days are exactly the same. Every morning, she arrives at Poguelandia to find her friends absent. The days stretch out with no sign of them. She sends messages and memes to their group chat, but only Cleo or Pope reply—and even then, it is just the occasional short message.

Sarah and John B are completely MIA. Sarah, who usually bombards her with texts and cringy memes, hasn’t been online since Monday evening. 

And as much as Kiara tries to convince herself otherwise—to tell herself it’s all in her head—the doubt persists. It clings to her like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable.  It tastes like doom.

///

By Saturday, her patience ends.

She calls Sarah. Lets the phone ring until the call goes to voicemail, then she calls again. She calls again. And again. Four times, until the embarrassment is too much. Then, she switches tactics and decides to shoot John B a message.

John B is her best shot. He’s the weak link, and if they are ignoring her—God, she hopes they fucking aren’t—then he will be the one to crack.

"John B! Can I come over today? I’m missing my godson and I’m missing you guys :("

It’s shameless, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Her phone vibrates less than ten minutes later.

"Sorry, Kie. Jackson’s sick :( We’re quarantining"

And seconds later, John B sends another message to their group chat.

"Pogue hangout canceled until further notice. Jackson is sick :("

Kiara has no choice but to swallow the story. She tells herself it’s reasonable, believable. She hopes it is the end of the weirdness.

But when she tries reaching out to Cleo and Pope, suggesting the three of them hang out, they leave her on read.

////

Another week and a half drags by without a single glimpse of her friends.

Kiara is done .

Sarah? Fallen off the face of the Earth. John B? Now claiming Jackson is fine, but he and Sarah have caught something instead. Cleo and Pope? Gone on a sudden vacation to celebrate Pope finishing finals—except days later, Candace comments about spotting Pope buying clothes in the Outer Banks Mall.

Kiara confronts him about it when he finally dignifies Poguelandia with his presence. Pope brushes it off. “ Oh yeah, it was a one-day vacation. Forgot to tell you. ”

And the next day, when she goes to Heyward’s to buy something, he mentions Sarah, Cleo, John B, and Pope coming in earlier that day. All of them.

That’s it. The final straw.

It isn’t just suspicion anymore—it’s a fucking confirmation. They are ignoring her.

The question isn’t if but why .

She has gone over the why a hundred times. Why the fuck are they ignoring her?

It’s driving her insane. Pogues don’t keep secrets from each other. That is their number one rule, the foundation of everything. So why does it feel like her friends are hiding something huge from her?

By Thursday evening, Kiara can’t take it anymore.

Over dinner, the words spill out before she even realizes what she’s saying.

— I think the Pogues are ignoring me —

Rafe blinks, confused. — What do you mean? Those Pogues of yours adore you — he says simply. No mockery, no disdain like there used to be, just stating a fact.

The sky is blue. Water is wet. Kiara’s friends would move mountains for her.

But right now? It doesn’t feel like it. 

The concern must show on her face because Rafe’s expression softens. He leans back, thinking, before letting out a sigh.

— Do you want me to ask John B tomorrow? He’s coming with me to meet some investors. —

— Please —

It is settled. Rafe will talk to John B, and Kiara will finally know what the fuck is going on. 

Rafe is like his sister in that way. He notices stuff. He pays attention to every detail. If something is wrong, he will find out.

///

Rafe leaves early next morning, kissing her goodbye and promising to get to the bottom of whatever is happening with the Pogues. Kiara spends the day at ease, knowing he’ll handle it. That’s what Rafe does. He solves her problems for her.

By the time she comes home, she is almost giddy with anticipation. Surely, everything will be alright now.

The moment she steps into the house and sees Rafe, her excitement dies. He is sitting at the top of the stairs of the back porch, his back to her. There is something in the way he sits that sends a shiver down her spine.

Kiara pushes the door open loudly, hoping to draw his attention. He doesn’t move.

— Rafe? — He hears her—she knows he does—but he remains still, staring out at the horizon. 

She sits down beside him, close enough that their arms brush. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even look at her either.

— Are you okay? — she asks, her voice softer now, not wanting to make whatever it’s wrong worse for him.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. When he finally turns to her, his eyes catch the colors of the sunset, shades of amber reflected in blue. 

His expression is hard to read—until it isn’t.

She sees it.

Fear. 

Dread. 

Pure raw fear .

— I talked to John B — 

— Okay — Kiara leans, searching his face. — What did he say? —

Rafe hesitates, his jaw tightening. — Everything’s okay. They were busy. It was nothing —

Kiara lets out a dry and cold laugh. She knows Rafe too well to fall for that. He is clearly shaken, and her friends have been acting far too weird for her to accept this excuse. Does he really want her to believe everything is fine?

— It’s true, Kie. — He tries to hold her gaze, but fails. — They’ve been dealing with their own shit. It’s got nothing to do with you. —

— Then why have they been ignoring my calls? My texts? Why does it feel like… like...—  

Like they don’t want to see me.

Rafe sighs, dragging a hand through his blond hair. — Why don’t you ask them tomorrow? — he says, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. Pleading for her to just drop it — John B said Sarah wants to hang out. They were supposed to message you about it —

That stops her short. Her irritation melts as she pulls out her phone. Sure enough, there is a message in the group chat from Pope.

"Tomorrow at our place!!"

John B: 

Sarah Jackson and I will be there

Pope: 

Kie, you coming right?

Kiara’s lips twitch into a small smile as she quickly types back:

coming :)

— Thank you — She leans over and presses a gentle kiss to Rafe’s cheek. — I’ll talk to them tomorrow —

Rafe nods, but he still doesn’t meet her eyes. His gaze drifts back to the horizon, to the sea that stretches out endlessly before them. 

The shadow of doom that has been following Kiara around seems to have caught up with him.

— You sure you are alright? — 

He doesn’t answer right away. And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and anxious and pleading .

— You know I’d do anything for you, right? —

— Yes — 

Because she does know. She knew it when he risked his life just so she could complete her vengeance quest. She knew it when he was ready to die just to save her. She knew it when he fought against sheriffs and insurance companies and inheritance lawyers just so she could be happy. And when that didn’t make her happy, he fought against her, for her.  She knows.

But this feels different.

— You know what that means, Kie? You should know. It’s not a damn secret —

She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

You know what that means?

She knows.

Rafe turns to her then, finally meeting her gaze. And he just looks so, so afraid.

— You know I love you? You should know. It’s not a fucking secret — 

A confession wrapped in barbed wire.

— I know —

Because she knows.

She just wishes she didn’t.

////

It’s Saturday afternoon when Kiara arrives at Pope's and Cleo’s apartment.

From her spot in the parking lot, she spots her friends gathered on the porch. John B is carrying Jackson, Sarah is pacing around with visible desperation, and Pope says something that makes John B shake his head.

Kiara is definitely going insane , because even this far away, she thinks she notices something tense about the group. 

She grabs her bag and starts walking toward them, but before she can even get halfway there, Sarah notices her. 

In an instant, Sarah’s face lights up, and she practically leaps off the porch, sprinting toward Kiara as if her life depends on it. 

— Kie! You are here!  —  

Sarah crashes into her and hugs her way too tightly, as if she’s afraid Kiara might disappear if she lets go. And her voice is bright but also edged with something Kiara cannot quite place. 

Even if Sarah Cameron is synonymous with emotional , this is too emotional. They haven’t seen each other for two weeks, not two fucking years.

— Yeah, I’m here. You can let go now. —

Sarah pulls back but still doesn’t let go completely. 

— I missed you so much. So, so much. It 's been forever —

— It’s been two weeks, Sarah —  Kiara corrects, and she lets the bitterness taint her words, because she’s kinda angry and doesn’t see a reason to hide it — Not like I was unreachable —

Sarah’s grin falters. She quickly recovers, but Kiara doesn’t miss the way her eyes stop shining. It’s almost as if she had put on a mask, and the mask had slipped for a split second. 

— I know, I know, don’t hate me. Please? —

From a balcony on the second floor, Kiara sees Cleo. She’s waving at them.

— Lunch’s almost ready! Don’t keep me waiting! —

/////.

It's been awkward. She can tell her friends are pretending to be chill, but they are in urgent need of acting classes. John B avoided her gaze during lunch. Cleo is awfully quiet. Pope and Sarah exchange glances, forgetting Kiara can see them being weird. Now the girls are out on the balcony while the boys decide to stay inside. They sit awkwardly with drinks in hand. 

For some damn reason, Sarah looks painfully guilty .

 — So, Kie… how’ve you been? —

Kiara’s eyes narrow.  —- You mean since you all started acting weird and ignoring me? Oh, just great. —-

Sarah’s smile drops yet again, and she quickly takes a sip of her drink to cover it. Cleo’s gaze dart to Sarah before landing back on Kiara, her expression carefully neutral.

 — I’m sorry — Sarah explains, her tone shy and laced with guilt. — Life’s been… complicated —

— Yeah, so complicated you couldn’t return a single call? — Kiara shoots back. — Come on, Sarah. What’s going on? Are you going to tell me why the fuck you’ve been ignoring me for almost three weeks?  —

— Nothing is going on! — Sarah says quickly, too quickly. — We just had a few stressful weeks. First Jackson was sick with a fever, and I didn’t want to leave him alone. Then it was John B and then me. And on top of all that, my phone decided to die, and it’s been in the repair shop ever since —

 — And you didn’t buy a new one? —

— You’re always telling us how phones and batteries are bad for the planet. I was trying not to be a consumerist for once! —

— I’ll believe you because I love you — 

She’s lying, of course. She doesn’t believe shit. But she has been feeling isolated for two weeks and she doesn’t want to feel isolated from her friends anymore. So she decides to be the bigger person and simply lets it go. 

After they catch up for a while, Kiara decides to change the subject.

She sets her drink down and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want to talk about this, but she needs to talk about it. If she doesn’t, she may drown. 

— I need some girl advice. Sarah…  — Kiara begins, her tone mocking — It’s about your brother. So if you want to cover your ears… —

— Oh, God. What did he do? —

Kiara hesitates, because she sucks at communicating her feelings, and it’s never easy to discuss her relationship with Rafe Cameron. But she needs to tell someone this, and she thinks her friends may understand. No, scratch that, she thinks they may be able to help her understand what she’s feeling. She cannot figure this out on her own. 

— Rafe… Rafe told me that he loves me —

It makes both girls freeze. They stare at her with pure shock drawn on their faces for a few long seconds.

Eventually, Cleo shakes her head, letting out a low whistle.

— Well, damn. —

Sarah doesn’t say anything, but her expression betrays her. Kiara doesn’t know how to read people, so she doesn’t know how to interpret the look on Sarah’s eyes, but anyone else would have been able to see the expression for what it was. 

Anger.

— When… When did he say this? —  Sarah eventually asks.

— Yesterday. —

Sarah’s grip on her glass tightens, as if trying to hold herself back. — He told you this... yesterday? —

— Yes, yesterday… Why? — Why would the date matter?

— No reason… And what did you say? —

Kiara groans, rubbing her temples, mortified by the memory of her reaction. — I panicked. He said, ‘You know I love you?’ and I said… ‘I know.’ —

Cleo lets out a snort and laughs, but Sarah doesn’t seem to find it funny. Instead, she looks horrified.

— You know? Kie, you are helpless. —

— I know! — Kiara throws her hands up, exasperated. — I just… I didn’t know what to say. We’ve only been dating for five months. Of course I care about him. — She pauses, struggling to find the right words. — But love? That’s big. And complicated. And I… — 

— You what? — 

— Forget it. I said nothing. —

She’s suddenly not feeling so brave about sharing her feelings. 

What was she thinking? They won’t understand. They will just freak out and make her freak out even more. 

Sarah and Cleo exchange a quick look. Kiara misses the way Sarah’s jaw tightens, her nails digging into her palm. For a moment, it seems like they’re going to press her, but then Sarah forces a small, nervous smile and reaches over to squeeze Kiara’s hand.

— You don’t have to figure out anything right away — 

Sarah retreats shortly after, inside to where John B is sitting. From the balcony, Kiara can’t hear their conversation, but she sees the way Sarah visibly panics . 

John B reacts badly to whatever Sarah is saying. His expression hardens. He swallows, hands on his hair as his gaze lands on Kiara for a split second before he looks away.

Cleo’s voice forces her to look away from the couple. 

— What’s really going on, Kie? — 

— What do you mean? —

— I mean, you don’t seem happy about Rafe saying he loves you. There something you’re not telling us? —

And it’s like she’s saying I fucking caught you .

— It’s complicated, Cleo. You know how messy things were between us —

— Yeah, but love is not complicated. That’s bullshit people say. Love’ a simple yes or no — Cleo presses, her eyes narrowing. — So honest with me, girl. Do you love him? Yes or no? —

Kiara opens her mouth to respond, but the words die on her tongue. How can she put what she feels into words? She can’t. She can’t even put it into thoughts. It is complicated. It is so fucking complicated.

— I don’t know, Cleo. I really don’t. —

Cleo is unconvinced, but she leaves her alone. And she too retreats inside the apartment. She joins John B’s and Sarah’s conversation. There’s an air of secrecy in the way they talk. The same weirdness as before. 

Kiara could follow her friends inside, but she knows they will stop gossiping as soon as she stands inside the room, and she’s so tired of them being this way.

So, so tired of not understanding what the fuck is going on. 

///

The next day, Kiara’s car decides to die.

She’s driving to work and the car just decides to fucking die. 

She is already having such a shitty week —weeks— and her car dying is like a slap to the face. Just when things couldn't get worse, they got worse.

So fucking tired.

She slams the car door shut in frustration and takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Because if she wanted, she could have a mental breakdown right here and now. 

She stands on the paved road for a moment, weighing her options. The walk to Poguelandia isn’t impossible, but it’s long enough to make her late for her shift, and the idea of walking under the heat makes her want to scream. 

So she decides to send a message to John B.

“Car broke down. Near the Chateau. Any chance you or Sarah are home? Need a ride.”

The reply comes almost instantly.

“not home sorry”

“i’ll have one of the employees pick you up.“

“wait there don’t move “

Kiara sighs in relief, but she’s not too happy over the idea of having to wait out there. And the Chateau is just down the road. John B told her not to move, but she doesn’t see any issue with waiting far away from the wilderness. She’s being safe, in fact. By the road a car could run her over. So she heads to the Chateau, cursing the universe for the horrible weeks she has been having. 

Once she gets there, she sees it. 

The glow of the TV, visible through the windows.

Not home , yet the TV is on. Maybe they’d forgotten to turn it off?

Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, Kiara makes her way to the front door. She pauses for a second, half expecting someone to come and stop her, but the house remains eerily quiet except for the faint sound of the TV. 

She uses her key. With a click, the door swings open.

— Just waiting inside — she mutters under her breath, as if needing to explain herself to the Chateau. 

A nature documentary plays on the television, the narrator’s soothing voice describing the migratory patterns of a sea turtle species. 

It’s weird, because Kiara has never been good at reading people, or reading spaces. She cannot tell when the vibes are off. But she steps into the house, and she knows.

She knows. 

Something is off.

She fights against the instincts telling her to fucking leave as moves deeper into the house. The open doorway to the guest room looms ahead, and that’s when she sees it—movement. 

A figure.

A person.

Her breath hitches.

For a split second, she thinks it might be John B, but the way the person stands is wrong . 

The wrong height. 

The wrong wild blond hair.

It takes her a while to understand what’s going on.

To register who is standing in front of her.

He notices her. Slowly, agonizingly, he turns to face her. 

When their eyes meet, the world ends and starts right over.

Those blue eyes—so vivid, so unmistakably his—lock onto hers. 

And she sees him.

She sees him.

— JJ? —

///

JJ Maybank stepped back into the Outer Banks two years after everyone thought he died, driven by one purpose: to get to her. To get to Kiara. Because that’s how it had always been. JJ and Kiara, together. As best friends, as something else, as boyfriend and girlfriend, as anything, but together.

He knows he needs to go to her. But as he drives around the Cut in Barracuda Mike’s car—a car he hadn’t stolen, by the way, he just borrowed it without asking—he realizes something terrifying . 

He isn’t sure where to start. 

The world didn’t stop after he “died”, and when he finally reaches Poguelandia, his stomach drops. 

The place is gone.

Poguelandia is gone.

Instead, there’s a construction site. A dozen unfinished wooden houses stand next to each other. Construction crews move around like they have no clue—or no care—that this land used to be sacred. 

He knows they’d lost it. But a part of him had hoped that the Pogues had found a way to save it. That since miracles existed, then surely a miracle would save Poguelandia. If he could make it back, their home would survive.

But the miracle he’d imagined hadn’t happened. 

JJ swallows hard and shoves his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling into fists. His friends aren’t here. 

Where are they? Where can he even begin to look for them now?

The rational thing to do would be to drive back to Mike and get more answers, but the thought makes him cringe. JJ doesn’t want to find out about anything from Mike. He isn’t sure why, but it feels wrong. JJ Maybank has always been messed up in the head. Even before the treasure hunts, the illegal travels abroad, and the dying, he’d been a mess. His way of doing things rarely made sense to anyone else. It was impulsive and self-destructive. But it was his. And this? 

This is something he needs to do alone.

The thought of the Chateau crosses his mind for an instant. But then reality hits him. The Chateau is gone too. It's long gone.

Where can he go? Where can he find her?

His next decision is reckless. Plain stupid. But if there is one thing JJ Maybank excels at, it’s making stupid decisions and somehow surviving them.

He drives through the Cut, past the streets that had been his playground, and then further, until he finds himself in Figure Eight. Kook territory . He still hates it, but if venturing into this territory is what it takes to see her, then so be it. 

When he finally pulls up to the Carrera residence, he’s feeling dazed. 

Nostalgia hits him like a truck. He can see himself as a teenager, walking these very same streets. Back then, he’d park around the corner, just out of sight, staring at her window. A grin spread across his face as she climbed out and ran . 

Back then, he would have never knocked on the door. 

His place was in the shadows, waiting to take her away from a world that never understood her. Waiting to be her escape.

But today is different.

Today, he knocks.

Once.

Twice.

Three times. Four times. Five times.

He’s ready to knock for the sixth time when the door finally swings open. 

It isn’t her.

Instead, JJ is face to face with Anna Carrera.

His stomach sinks. Of all the people to answer the door, it has to be Anna Carrera the one who welcomes him back. 

Anna’s expression shifts as recognition dawns on her face.

For a moment, she just stares at him, her mouth slightly ajar, her eyes wide with disbelief.

JJ doesn’t move, he doesn't speak. He can’t. The weight of her gaze pins him in place, and for the first time in a long time, he feels truly exposed.

Anna blinks, trying to make sense of the vision before her. 

She knows it’s him. Even if she hadn’t seen that face in nearly two years, even if he’s a little older now, she could still recognize him in an instant. Still, as undeniable as it is, she gasps, her breath hitching as she steps back. Terror flashes through her.

Because the boy she once knew was gone. Dead. Buried in a country thousands of miles away. 

JJ Maybank is dead.

And yet, JJ Maybank is standing at her front door.

— Hi, Mrs. Carrera. I…—

— JJ? — 

Saying his name feels like invoking a ghost, as if uttering it might cause him to vanish into the air and confirm she’s finally lost her mind. Maybe after this she will head to the hospital and get checked for early dementia.

But JJ doesn’t disappear.

— Yup. — His voice trembles — That’s me. JJ —

— But you are… you were… —

— Dead? — 

Anna just nods numbly. 

Dead.

Gone.

Never coming back. 

How the hell was he back?

— I know this is weird. And you probably have a lot of questions. That’s understandable — JJ says, his voice faltering. He shifts his weight uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck as he searches for the right words. — I’ll explain. I swear. But, I was wondering if… can I see Kie? —

He tries to sound composed, but the second her name leaves his lips, his voice cracks . 

Anna tries to speak, but no words come out. Her eyes dart back toward the interior of the house. For one brief moment, hope flickers in JJ’s chest. Maybe Kiara’s inside, maybe he’s about to see her. But then Anna turns back to him, and her expression is heavy with something he doesn’t recognize. Sadness? Relief? Regret? All at once?

— Mike! Mike, come here. Please, come now! — 

JJ flinches. Anna's gaze softens.

— Do you… do you want to come inside, JJ? —

He nods, words failing him, and Anna steps aside, holding the door open for him to enter. JJ moves past her awkwardly. He feels out of place, like he’s trespassing, even though she invited him in.

The Carrera house hasn’t changed much. He’s been here before—always sneaking in, always staying out of sight. This is the first time Anna Carrera has invited him in. 

It’s weird.

As he studies the Carrera’s living room, he hears footsteps approaching.

— Anna, did you call me? — 

JJ freezes.

Mike Carrera takes some time to process the scene. He looks over to his wife, searching for an explanation.  — Anna? Anna? Is this… Anna, what is going on? What is going on? — 

Anna just nods, as if saying, yes, he’s real. 

Yes, you are not going crazy, I see him too. 

JJ sees Mike Carrera and he expects anger, or maybe confusion, but what he doesn’t expect is the vulnerable emotion that crosses Mike’s face. It makes him stay still and want to run away at the same time.

Mike crosses the room in quick long strides. Before JJ can react, he’s pulled into a hug. He stands stiff. Shocked doesn’t even begin to explain how he’s feeling. And then Anna steps in, wrapping her arms around him as well.

The Carreras are hugging him . 

He had come to their house fully expecting to be turned away, and now they are… hugging him?

They continue holding him for a while until Mike finally pulls back. His eyes are glassy , as if he might cry at any second. He is talking to JJ, but JJ’s head spins. Then Mike retreats to the kitchen, his phone already in hand. 

JJ hears fragments of a conversation.

— Now. Right now. You need to come now . —

Anna stays beside him. She doesn’t speak, but her worried gaze follows his every move. He wants to say something, tell her thank you for not turning him away, ask her if she knows who Mike is talking to on the phone, but the words won’t come.

The silence stretches until it’s broken by the distant hum of an engine. 

He would recognize that sound anywhere.

Mike steps outside as the a pulls up. JJ can’t see who’s driving, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows. 

Two years.

Two fucking years.

The two years sink deep into his chest. They eat him from the inside. He can feel his own heart breaking.

He catches Anna’s concerned look. She’s talking to him.

Are you alright, JJ?

But JJ slips away and travels back to 2017.

He remembers a certain evening. The Pogues were about to start high school. They had gathered at the docks, drinking cheap beer in the Pogue as they fantasized about what high school would be like. John B got drunk fast, as any other 14 year old would. He stood up, shouting to the sky, rambling about the importance of Pogues for Life . He stumbled, falling against the slippery floor of the Pogue, and then he fell into the dark and cold water beneath them. 

JJ had been scared other times in his life, plenty of times in fact, but he had never felt the kind of fear he experienced when he saw John B disappear in the water.

He remembered how the three of them had desperately tried to go after him, only for John B to emerge immediately after, laughing his head off. 

You were scared for me? He had mocked them. JJ was angry at him. 

He was allowed to make stupid mistakes and risk his life over nothing. His friends weren’t. 

You are an idiot . He had told John B. He didn’t tell him how seeing him disappear in the water had been the most terrifying moment of his life until then.

How the thought of never seeing his friend again had almost ruined his short life in an instant. 

Now he’s back at the Carrera’s living room. And he’s thinking about that moment, about what a life without John B meant for him.

John B and JJ, brothers forever. 

JJ stands in the doorway and John B is already out of the Twinkie, walking towards the house. The confusion in his face dissolves into pure heartbreak when he spots him. 

He had seen John B cry countless times before. John B wore his heart on his sleeve. He cried whenever he wanted and he never tried to hide it. But this? He had never seen John B cry like this . 

He drops to his knees, John B drops to his knees against the hot asphalt, and he looks like he’s having a panic attack as he says JJ’s name.

— JJ? — He asks over and over again. It’s broken and vulnerable and desperate. He says JJ’s name and it’s a confession to his pain. 

Grief. Sadness. Anger. Distress. 

JJ. JJ. JJ. JJ.

Anna and Mike nod.

Y es, it’s JJ. Yes, we checked.

John B manages to get up, holding his chest, like trying to hold his heart together, the same heart that’s falling apart, and he runs to him. 

JJ meets him halfway there. 

He’s real . Both think to themselves.

It’s real, and they are real, and it doesn’t make any sense, it shouldn’t be real, but it is.

John B cries, hard, the weight of two years of grief crashing down all at once. He cries and cries and then cries some more. 

It’s real. He’s there. He’s real.

The brown-haired boy is gripping JJ like an anchor, his arms wrapped so tight around him that JJ winces and laughs.

— Man… I need… to breathe —  

It has the opposite effect. Hearing JJ laugh causes John B to hold onto him more tightly. He had dreamed about that laugh. The laugh he thought he would never get to hear anymore. The laugh that plagued his dreams. His wild, beautiful laughter. 

JJ 's laugh. 

After what seems hours, John B finally lets him go. He is still looking at him as he makes his way to Mike, and they hold a short conversation while both staring at JJ. John B hugs the Carreras, and then makes his way back. 

He doesn’t want to be apart from JJ. He clings to him, an arm sling around his shoulders as they make their way to the Twinkie. From a distance, they might look like any other pair of friends. No one would guess that one of them had clawed his way back from death.

Inside the car, John B is still crying, his quiet sobs filling the small space, the sound breaking JJ’s heart in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

— I don’t understand —  John B finally chokes out, his voice trembling, his face wet with tears.

How is it possible?

— I’ll explain — 

John B nods, wiping at his face, and turns the key. The Twinkie sputters to life.

JJ glances out the window, watching the world blur. He remembers the moments from earlier.

— I went to Poguelandia…. It’s really gone — He says.

John B’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. His jaw clenches, his eyes flicking briefly to JJ before returning to the road. Guilt and sadness twist together in his chest, and he cannot stop himself from picturing it—JJ walking through the Cut, confused, seeing Poguelandia gone. 

— We tried to save it. We really did. But the bank sold it to developers before we even had a chance to fight. —

JJ nods. He’d already seen it with his own eyes. But hearing it from John B somehow makes it hit harder.

Especially since it is all his fault.

Don’t go there, JJ.

Questions itch at him—questions about the others, about what had happened while he was gone—but he isn’t ready for more bad news. Not while he is still dizzy and disoriented. He needs to be on solid ground for that. Preferably near a toilet where he can puke once things get too heavy.

So instead, he settles for the most practical question.

— Where are we going? —

A wide and pure grin spreads across his friend’s face. It’s a stark contrast to the sobbing John B from just minutes back. 

— We’re going home. —

JJ tries to mirror his friend’s excitement, but he feels frustrated. Home? The word feels foreign, unknown. Home wasn’t a place. Not for him.

For John B, though, home had always been the Chateau.

The Twinkie comes to a halt in front of a house. JJ blinks. 

It’s the Chateau. 

It isn’t, of course, but it’s so similar he has to look up and demand an answer with his confused eyes.

— We couldn’t get back the old land, it was already sold.  But we found this place and we decided to rebuild it —

The new Chateau is exactly like the former, but better. It is larger, much larger. The paint is fresh. The structure looks sturdy, not put together by years of cheap fixes. The front and back porches are expansive. And the yard is scattered with signs of life: a small slide, a kiddie pool, a set of toddler swings. 

It is, without a doubt, John B’s home.

They climb out of the Twinkie, and John B immediately throws an arm around JJ, his grip firm. The contact is instinctive, almost desperate. Even though he had confirmed JJ is really there , there was still fear—what if he vanishes? What if he lets go and JJ disappears again?

John B leads him inside. The interior of the house is big but warm. Open concept with the living room and dining room in the same space. Toys litter every corner—bright plastic cars, stuffed animals, and building blocks. 

The walls are covered in photos.

JJ’s eyes land on the nearest photo. It is a hospital photo. Sarah lays in a bed, holding a tiny newborn in her arms. John B is beside her, his eyes red from crying for seemingly hours. Pope and Cleo with them, smiling proudly.

— That’s our son, — John B says. A son. They had a son. 

JJ moves to the next photos: John B and a heavily pregnant Sarah sitting on a picnic blanket by the beach, Sarah’s face glowing. The same baby from the hospital photo, older now, splashing in the kiddie pool. Playing in the sand. Wearing a pirate Halloween costume. 

There’s also an old shot of Big John with a tiny John B in the old Chateau. JJ spots pictures of Cleo and Pope, sometimes alone, sometimes with the family. There’s even one of Anna and Mike Carrera holding John B and Sarah’s son. And there’s a photo of Rafe standing next to his nephew, actually smiling.

It takes a while before JJ finally finds her.

The picture is from what looks like the baby’s first birthday party. Blue balloons float in the background, and a turtle-themed cake sits center stage. Kiara is on the floor, her curls swept into a bun, her attention entirely on the baby beside her. The toddler stares at the cake with wide-eyed wonder, but JJ’s gaze is fixed on her. She’s smiling at the boy as if he’s her entire world, completely unaware of the camera capturing the moment.

His Kie.

JJ’s hand trembles slightly as he holds the photo. The world around him fades, and for a moment, it’s just him and the image of her. 

He doesn’t notice when John B reenters the room, doesn’t see the way his friend’s expression shifts from joy to doubt as he notices JJ holding the photo.

— I just called the guys. They’re on their way. — John B says. 

Minutes pass. The faint sound of a car pulling up outside barely registers with JJ, still staring at the picture. At his girl.

From outside, he vaguely hears the slam of a car door and then the front door of the Chateau bursts open.

Sarah Cameron storms in. 

She has barely changed. Her hair is the same and her presence is the same. She even looks the same age as a few years back. The only thing new is the toddler in her arms, his hair a few shades of blond lighter than his mother’s. 

Her eyes lock onto JJ.

She almost falls back, her steps dragging as if she’s forgotten how to walk. Her eyes widen in disbelief, her lips parting but failing to form words.

The first sound she makes is not a word but a broken, choked noise.

Something so raw that slices through JJ like a knife.

— No. — She shakes her head — No, no, no, no . — Her voice is trembling and she’s trembling and the entire room seems to be trembling. She turns toward John B, her expression wild and pleading.

— John B — her voice cracks — What the fuck!? —

John B’s smile is wide and tearful. His voice is gentle, understanding, because he himself went through this just an hour ago and he knows Sarah is having her entire world flipped over.

— Look at who I found out there — 

Sarah crumbles.

A sob rips from her chest as she thrusts the little boy into John B’s arms. She’s already moving, crossing the space to JJ in seconds.

Before he can brace himself, she’s on him. Her arms wrap around him and her small frame vibrates with the intensity of her sobs. JJ stumbles back a step, caught off guard.

For such a small woman, Sarah hugs with a force that feels like it could break bones. 

She cries on his chest, falling apart.

Once she has soaked his t-shirt with her tears, she pul ls back just enough to look at him, her face a portrait of anguish.  Then, without warning, she slams her fists against his chest.

— What the fuck? You were dead!  What the fuck? JJ, what the fuck? —

Her hands push against him again and again, each blow weaker than the last as she continues to sob. 

— What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck!? —

JJ doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop her. He stands there, taking it all, every scream, every tear.

— It’s okay, Sare —

— No! No, it’s not okay! You were dead, JJ. Dead! — Her voice breaks on the last word — What the fuck are you doing here? How... how... how the fuck? How the fuck!? —

JJ looks over at John B, and the toddler who is puzzled by the scene before him. 

He feels horrible. Horrible for making his friends go through this, and horrible because he’s sure John B and Sarah’s son now has phrase word fuck engraved on his brain. 

— How? —  Sarah finally pulls away, begging him to please say something— How, JJ? How? —

JJ opens his mouth, ready to explain—to try, at least—but before a single word escapes, the door slams open again.

Pope and Cleo march in. Pope’s brow furrows.

How weird.

Pope is looking ahead. He scans everything in. He sees John B and Jackson, and Sarah still sobbing, and he sees JJ, but he blinks, because of course he isn’t seeing JJ. 

No, JJ is dead. Duh . 

Pope has always been a cynical person. He doesn’t believe in miracles or whatever. What he’s seeing? Not real. He knows the human brain, and he knows the brain likes to play tricks here and then. 

But then John B speaks. 

— Pope, look at who I found… —

— John B, shut up — He begins, because he doesn’t want John B to annoy him when he’s mid delusion. 

It clicks. 

Look at who I found . John B sees him too. And Sarah is crying, and Cleo next to him is frozen, looking at the thing that looks like JJ.

They see him too. 

Pope is a science man. He believes in facts. Things that are possible.

And this?

This isn’t possible.

— What is this? Some kind of sick joke? What the fuck is this? —

— Pope…  —

— No! — he snaps, his voice rising as panic laces his tone. — Shut up. Shut up. He’s... he’s dead. We buried him. I... I was there. —

JJ stares at Pope, tears in his eyes.  He stands there, watching as Pope falls to pieces before him.

— NO! — Pope says again, louder now. He laughs, a short, humorless sound, and rubs his hands over his face. Maybe if he blinks enough, if he looks away enough, JJ will disappear — This isn’t real. It can’t be real. — His voice trembles on the edge of hysteria. 

Cleo steps forward, her hand brushing his arm, but he pulls away sharply, like her touch burns him.

— Love, breath —

— Don’t — he says, his voice breaking. — Don’t tell me to breathe. Don’t tell me it’s okay. — His eyes snap to hers, wild and glistening with unshed tears. 

JJ finally speaks.

— Would you please calm the fuck down, man? — 

Those words hit Pope like a freight train. That’s JJ’s voice . That’s actually JJ’s voice.

— No — he whispers one last time, but this time, it’s a plea. Asking the universe to please stop fucking with him, because he’s starting to believe JJ is actually back. And he does and it’s all a lie, a sick game, then he doesn’t know if he will be able to survive that. 

— JJ —  he cries, and suddenly, he’s moving.

The hesitation is gone, replaced by an overwhelming need to close the distance. Pope stumbles forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, and throws himself into JJ’s arms with so much force it sends them both staggering. JJ’s back hits the wall, but he doesn’t care. His arms wrap around Pope instinctively, holding on as tightly as he can. He laughs, pure and boyish. 

— JJ, you were dead —  Pope says as if JJ doesn’t know  — You were fucking dead, man. We buried you. What are you doing here? — And he laughs too. 

Pope laughs. It’s not a crazy or humorless laugh. It’s the most joyous laugh JJ has ever heard. 

Cleo hasn’t moved from her spot. She’s trying to keep her cool, but her eyes betray her. 

She’s falling apart too. 

When JJ finally meets her gaze, her composure cracks. She takes a hesitant step forward, then another, her movements cautious, almost tentative. She stops a foot away, her arms still wrapped around herself, and stares at him.

— You’re real? — 

— Yeah. I’m real, Cleo. —

She’s laughing too, joyous like Pope, and she throws her arms around him, hugging tightly. 

JJ’s ribs may not survive this day. 

Once Pope and Cleo and Sarah have finally accepted the reality of it all, John B brings the toddler who had witnessed the whole ordeal, and introduces him to JJ.

— JJ… This is Jackson —

Jackson. 

The little boy blinks up at him, tilting his head, studying him. JJ’s throat tightens.

— Jackson — he says gently — this is Uncle JJ —

Jackson grins, waving enthusiastically. — Hi, Uncle JJ! —

JJ’s lips tremble as he raises a hand in return. — Hi, buddy —

Sarah breaks down again, ugly crying harder than before. JJ wants to comfort her, but his eyes are locked on Jackson, who’s staring back at him with that innocent, unburdened smile.

JJ’s heart aches—aches in a way it hasn’t in years. He feels alive for the first time since everything fell apart, like something broken inside him has finally snapped back into place. It’s fucking overwhelming. He’s happy, whole, okay in a way he didn’t think was possible.

But the feeling doesn’t last.

It can’t.

Because something’s missing. His girl is missing.

— Where's Kie? — 

The room goes suddenly still. 

His eyes dart around, searching his friend’s faces for some kind of answer, but all he sees are averted gazes. 

JJ’s stomach drops.

— Where is Kie? — he asks again, this time more urgently.

In an instant, he’s freaking out. JJ isn’t the most observant guy, and he knows it. He has never been good at reading people. He was only ever good at reading one person, at reading his girl . But this? He doesn’t have to be a genius to see it. This is impossible to miss. 

He thinks about Kiara missing from the photo of Jackson’s birth and he feels nauseous. 

— Guys — he pleads — where is she? —

John B must see the panic on his face because he rapidly answers.

— She’s at work. She’s fine —

JJ exhales sharply, his panic subsiding slightly. 

— She was here today. Right, baby? Auntie Kie came to visit us today — Sarah says, holding baby Jackson in her arms. Jackson nods enthusiastically.

Okay. Kiara was there today. She was fine .

Sarah announces she’s going to get Jackson ready for bed so they can talk properly, leaving John B to tell JJ about the sleeping arrangements. 

— The guest room is yours now — He tells him and he guides him to it.

The Pogues gather in the guest room once Sarah has tucked Jackson in. Cleo and Pope claim a massive pouf chair in the corner, while John B takes a seat beside JJ on the bed. Sarah joins them last, settling on the other side of JJ.

There’s so much unsaid between them. JJ knows he’s missed more than just a few milestones. He aches to fill in the gaps, to understand and live what he’s missed, but he also knows they are confused. Just hours ago, JJ Maybank was dead. Now, here he is, and it’s surreal, amazing, and terrifying.

— How? — John B asks yet again. 

He has to answer now. 

JJ sighs deeply. He can’t tell them everything. But they deserve something, so he takes a deep breath and the last two years play out.

He tells them about waking up in his own grave. He describes the moment he realized he was alive, gasping for oxygen and feeling the pain of the stab.

How, JJ? How?

JJ shrugs. — I don’t know — Because he doesn’t know. For him, it was like going to sleep and waking up.

He tells them about the Moroccan gang that found him. They’d dragged him across the sand and taken him to a doctor. He spent months recovering, fighting infections and lack of proper care. He doesn’t tell them what happened after. He doesn’t tell them of the beatings and the masked men with guns pointed to his head. He can see the guilt on their faces, the tears as they imagine him lost and alone. So he spares them.

He doesn’t tell them about the other murder attempts. The times he coughed up blood.

He doesn’t tell them about the time he called. 

Instead, he tells them about hearing Groff was in Portugal, how it be came an obsession. Revenge was the only thing that made sense. He tells them about the trying to earn money, which was impossible, because he was a nameless foreigner in Morocco. He tells them about the smugglers, the travels across the Mediterranean. 

Getting to Portugal. 

Looking for Groff.

Looking everywhere, yet not being able to find the man who was supposed to be his father. 

— I looked everywhere — JJ says, his voice cracking. — I spent every cent I had trying to find him. I asked everyone But I just couldn’t… I couldn’t. I couldn’t find him. I tried, fuck , I tried, but I didn’t find him. I... I couldn't... I'm sorry. I’m sorry — 

Finally, he tells them about Antonio, the Consul, the embassy, and the flight back home.

They ask him why he didn’t come to them sooner, he tells them of not having the chance while still in Africa. 

They ask him why he didn’t call while in Europe. He makes up a poor excuse. 

They won’t understand.

Once he’s done telling them “everything”, the Pogues fall into an uneasy silence. It’s weird, bad, weird, but at least the worst part is over.

Or so JJ believes.

Because once he’s finished, he asks for her again.

— When is Kie coming? —

The group averts his gaze. JJ’s frustration rises. He’s not stupid, even if most people think he is. He knows they’re keeping something from him.

— Can y’all stop that? I just want to see her. —

— JJ… — Sarah starts, her voice soft, and JJ hates it.

— No. I don’t want to hear whatever y’all have to say. Just tell her to come. I need to see her. —

— JJ, I know you want to see her, but… — John B begins, but JJ cuts him off..

— But what? —  He snaps. — Where is she? If she’s not okay, just fucking tell me. Just fucking tell me, John B. —

— She’s okay. Stop it, dude. If she wasn’t okay, we would tell you. She’s okay. But JJ… — John B’s voice falters, and to JJ’s horror, it cracks. 

JJ freezes. His stomach twists. Why is John B crying? Why the fuck is John B crying? 

— JJ… there’s a reason you couldn’t find Groff. —

— What the fuck does that mean? — JJ looks around at his other friends, desperate for answers. Cleo looks at him with pity, which makes his stomach turn. Pope won’t even meet his eyes. When he looks at Sarah, he sees tears streaming down her face again. Except this time, they aren’t tears of joy.

— JJ… When you… When we thought you died, Kiara… she wasn’t alright. She was so angry. She wanted to take revenge on Groff. We tried to stop her. We tried to go with her, we wanted to avenge you too, but… —

— But what? — 

— One morning, she was just… gone — 

— Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’, John B? —

— Gone, JJ. We woke up, and she was gone. We tried to find her. We searched everywhere. We also heard about Groff being in Portugal, JJ, but we had no way of getting there. And after a while… we had to go back home —

JJ’s nausea comes back. —- You went home without her!? You left her...! —

— We didn’t leave her! — Sarah breaks. There was a heavy guilt in her voice, a guilt that had been buried and now resurfaced — Do you seriously think we would do that to her? After she had lost you? JJ, we had no choice — 

— Sarah is right, JJ. We had no choice  —John B explains, trying to moderate the conversation — She came back, alright? Months later, she came back. But she wasn’t the same, JJ. We knew something was wrong the moment we saw her. —

— What do you mean wrong ? —

— Wrong, JJ. Just wrong. And eventually we found that… —

JJ stares at John B, his gaze narrowing. He hates how secretive his friends are being.  — Found out what, John B? — 

John B hesitates. He needs to tell JJ, but he’s also afraid of being the one who breaks the news to him. 

JJ angry is volatile. 

JJ angry because of something happening to Kiara is fucking catastrophic .

— John B. Found out what? — 

John B closes his eyes for a brief moment, signing  — JJ, the reason you couldn’t find Groff…— He takes a shaky breath. — It’s because Kiara killed him. —

The words hit JJ like a damn train. 

The world stops around him, and for a moment, all he can hear is his own heartbeat, rising in recognition.

The reason you couldn’t find Groff, it’s because Kiara killed him.

No. 

There was no way.

— No — he finally says, shaking his head. — No, that’s not true —

— JJ… — John B. He speaks to him with caution, and JJ hates it. It’s the way John B would tell him to stop being an idiot. Almost condescending. JJ hates it.

He also hates how John B is lying. He’s lying. He has to be lying.

— Stop lying, John B —

— I’m not lying, JJ. She went after him. Alone. And… she… she did it. —

— No. Fucking stop lying. Kie wouldn’t… she couldn’t — JJ’s words rush out, disbelieving and panicked — Kie wouldn’t —

— She told us, JJ — Sarah is full on crying now. —  She was so sad. She kept saying her life didn’t matter anymore. That since she’d taken a life, hers was worthless… —

— Stop. — JJ’s voice cracks, his chest heaving. He feels the familiar burn in his chest, the burn that tells him he’s about to have a panic attack. 

His hands twitch as if searching for a cigarette. For something to hold and consume. For something to hold and consume him. 

— Just stop — He’s supplicating. 

— She’s better now, JJ. Don’t worry — Pope interjects quickly. He sees it too. JJ beginning to meltdown  — I swear, man. She’s better. It’s okay —

— Is that supposed to make me feel better!? — JJ almost yells. His eyes, wild and desperate, dart to each of his friends, and they are damning. He can’t help but blame them. — You tell me she was saying her life was worthless, and then tell me not to fucking worry, like that’s how it works… —

— No, JJ…  — Sarah starts, but John B interrupts her.

— Look, JJ. Kiara is better now, I fucking promise you. She’s better now, but we all know she still thinks about it. And if she sees you, she’s going to be happy, but maybe she’s also going to feel guilty like before… — 

— Wow, wow, wow , John B. Hold on a damn second. — Cleo says, finally joining the conversation — Kiara is stronger than y’all give her credit for. She doesn’t need to be protected. —

— Are you seriously saying that, Cleo? — John B turns to her, his voice almost mocking. He’s angry and frustrated at the suggestion, as if Cleo had said something truly stupid. — You were there. You know how bad it was. You cannot be serious right now —

Cleo’s eyes narrow. She has to hold back from telling John B to go fuck himself. — Yeah, I was there. But I also saw her get over it. And I see the way she still misses JJ.. Are you seriously saying we shouldn’t tell her he's back? —

— I never said that! —John B quickly clarifies, his voice rising as he runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. — I’m just saying… Why don’t we prepare the soil for a bit? We can figure out a plan, figure out when and how to tell her. Just in case —

— You really believe me being back is going to harm her? — JJ can’t help but sound hurt.

John B hesitates, his jaw tight, then exhales sharply. — JJ… — He trails off, searching for the right words. — She’s going to be so fucking happy, man. But I just think we need to be careful. —

— John B, you know I love you, but you are an idiot. Rude Boy here wants to see Kie. I think Kie wants to see him too. Let ‘em see each other — Cleo says firmly, her disbelief laced with irritation. She can’t fathom why this even needs to be said. There’s no valid reason to keep JJ and Kiara apart.

— Cleo, sorry, but you don’t know Kiara like I do — John B counters, his voice sharp.

Cleo rolls her eyes, more annoyed at John B than before. 

— Fine, dickhead . Do whatever you want. Don’t’wanna hear you crying when this blows up — 

— It’s not going to blow up — John B says, his tone bitter and defensive.

His gaze shifts to Pope and Sarah, silently begging for support. Pope has no option but to speak.

— I think John B’s right — he says cautiously, his voice apologetic as he looks at Cleo — It’s not about keeping you from her, JJ. We just want to make sure she’s okay. —

Cleo lets out a scoff, shaking her head as she mutters something about men being stupid. 

Sarah, silent until now, stares at the wall, lost in thought. But the weight of everyone’s attention makes her look. She fidgets with a strand of her hair, looking torn.

— C’mon, babe. You know I just want what’s best for Kie — John B pleads.

Sarah lets out a shaky sigh.

— I know. Fine — She sounds far from convinced. — If you think this is what’s best for Kie, okay. But we need to tell her soon. And I can’t lie to her. If I see her, I’m going to crack. — 

— Then maybe you don’t see her while we figure this out? — John B says, his tone gentler now, but Sarah looks painfully guilty.

All eyes turn to JJ.

What is he supposed to say? They’re talking about Kiara like they know her better than he does. It destroys him. It also destroys him that they are kinda right, because he has no idea of what’s best for her.

The idea of waiting, of not seeing her right away, feels unbearable. But what choice does he have?

He could fight it. He could refuse to accept their decision until they had no choice but to let him see her. But would it be the best for Kiara? Or would he be hurting her unknowingly?

The thought of the second option causes the panic to come back.

— Fine, whatever. I’ll wait —

He doesn't want them to see him cry over the decision, so he quickly excuses himself and locks himself in the bathroom. It hurts, but John B sounds so convinced about it being the best for Kiara. John B always protected his friends. He truly wanted what was best for Kiara. 

JJ will have to wait. For her, for her sake, he’ll wait. Hopefully, he won't have to wait more than a few days.

/// 

JJ has to stay indoors to avoid people from Kildare recognizing him. He spends most of his time with John B, Sarah, and Jackson. At first, he’s grateful. He cherishes every minute he gets to spend alongside his family. But as days blur into a week, the novelty fades.

He can’t stop thinking about Kiara. He fantasizes about their reunion to an unhealthy point. When he’s bored, he lets the scene play in his head. He pictures her beautiful doe eyes lighting up when she realizes he’s back. He imagines tasting her lips again. He thinks of burying his head in her soft, dark curls and staying there until the world pulls him away.

He asks Sarah about her now and then, but every time, her voice falters. It’s enough to make him stop asking altogether.

Though he does find out they built another Poguelandia. Turns out all the Pogues work there. When he asks John B how they got the money, he stammers and tells him something about a loan.

The second week arrives. JJ starts feeling restless. John B and Sarah sometimes go out and leave him as babysitter. Pope visits as much as he can. He buys JJ new clothes and a cellphone. Cleo drops by with delicious food, joking that she’s “saving him from death by bland chicken.”

Still, the monotony is suffocating. Every time JJ asks about Kiara, the room grows tense. Sarah desperately tries to change the subject and John B looks at him like he’s crazy. He asks when he will be allowed out, they hesitate. He snaps at them several times. 

One afternoon, the sound of raised voices wakes JJ up from his second nap of the day. Sarah and John B start arguing in their room, their words muffled but heated. Soon enough they are both yelling, and he can hear Sarah’s voice begin to crack

— Come on, little man, — JJ says, scooping up Jackson, who had been playing with a toy car on the floor. — Let’s get out of here for a bit. —

Jackson giggles as JJ hoists him onto his shoulders. At 19 months old, the kid is a ball of energy, his tiny hands clutching JJ’s hair as they head outside. They play in the yard, Jackson’s laughter echoing as JJ helps him climb the slide. 

When the shouting inside finally stops, Jackson looks up at JJ with his big brown eyes. — Uncle JJ! I love you! —

JJ freezes, his chest tightening. Curses himself as he almost cries in front of the poor kid.

— I love you too, buddy, — he says, smiling, but Jackson is already running back toward the house, oblivious to the weight of his words.

He follows Jackson inside to find Sarah sitting on the couch, her face buried in her hands, trying to calm herself down. There’s tears in her eyes when she notices JJ, and she quickly wipes them away, but it’s too late. He saw it.

— What happened? — He steps toward Sarah, holding out a hand.

Sarah takes it, sniffling. — Kie knows we’re avoiding her… I’m tired, JJ. John B thinks he knows what’s best for her, but I’m starting to think he’s wrong. —

JJ exhales slowly. Kie knows something is wrong. — I just want to see her — He confesses. It’s an obvious confession, but he needs to say it.

Sarah’s hand tightens around his. — I know — 

Shortly after, John B appears through the front door. He and Sarah retreat to the kitchen, their voices gentler now. JJ doesn’t bother listening. Instead, he retreats to his room, lying in bed, staring blankly at the wall as he absently flips a lighter open and closed.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. Before he can say anything, John B steps inside.

— We’re going to meet Kie at Cleo’s and Pope’s place. We are going to tell her — he announces.

The words hit JJ like a wave. Relief washes over him, and for the first time in weeks, he feels at ease. The next day, he spends the hours while his friends are out pacing around the house, too anxious to stand still. Every sound outside makes his heart leap, expecting her to walk through the door at any second.

But when Sarah and John B return, his smile fades. There’s no curly-haired girl with them. Instead, they look somber, and even though it sounds crazy, they seem angry.

— We couldn’t tell her. We’ll try again later this week. —

JJ stares at him, disbelief morphing into resentment. He waited, and he was patient, and they arrived without her — You’ve got to be kidding me —

Without another word, he storms off to the guest room and slams the door behind him.

Sarah calls him — JJ, come on. Don’t do this. — 

But JJ doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. Eventually, her voice dims, and he falls into a restless sleep, his mind replaying every moment of the past two years.

//// 

The next morning, JJ wakes up to an empty house. He lays there in the sunshine that filters through the curtains. The usual sounds of morning chaos—Jackson’s laugher, Sarah’s chatter, John B’s footsteps—is absent.

He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he reaches for his phone. A single text from John B blinks on the screen:

“Took Jackson out for the morning. Be back later. Sorry for yesterday”

He is sorry, but he still won’t let JJ out of this fucking house. 

JJ leaves his room. He turns on the TV and flips through channels, barely registering what is on the screen.

Eventually, he lands on a nature documentary. He is about to skip past it when he hesitates. The narrator’s voice describes the migration patterns of sea turtles.

Kiara would love this , he thinks. He can picture her now—her eyes shining, her hands gesturing happily at the sea turtles on the screen.

The thought makes his chest ache.

JJ sinks deeper into the couch. He isn’t really watching; his mind keeps drifting back to Kiara. What is she doing right now? Is she thinking about him, too? That's stupid. Two years passed. There is no way she is thinking about him still.

Hunger pulls him from his haze. Too lazy to cook, he remembers the sodas he left in his room the day before. Warm, sure, but better than nothing. With a groan, he gets up.

////

JJ is rummaging through the mess on his nightstand, pulling out the less warm soda, when he hears it.

The sound of the front door opening. 

Sarah and John B?

It’s weird that they are back so early, but maybe they had forgotten something. Or maybe they had decided against going out.

Still, something about it feels weird .

He hears footsteps.

The steps grow closer. Sounds like one person. Maybe it’s Sarah?

He exhales. The footsteps sound light. It’s definitely Sarah. He begins to turn around, prepared to see Sarah Cameron and maybe Jackson with her.

But the moment his eyes land on the figure in the living room, he almost falls.

At first, his mind struggles to make sense of what he’s seeing. It doesn’t compute.

The right height.
The right hair

For a second, he actually stops breathing. 

He can’t move, can’t think. All he can do is stare, his eyes locking onto hers, those beautiful brown eyes he knows so well . 

She says his name, and it hurts more than getting stabbed.

— JJ? —

Kiara.

Chapter Text

Kiara is no stranger to hallucinations. 

She’s familiar with them, in fact. Hallucinations and her, they go way back. Turns out when you go through a traumatic event, you may develop this thing called PTSD , and surprise, surprise, one of the symptoms of PTSD are hallucinations. 

At first, Kiara thought she was losing her mind.

Only truly insane people heard and saw things that weren’t there. Eventually, she had to accept she wasn’t going crazy; she was already there. She was convinced that she was doing alright, but then the moment she stepped and looked back, she realized the only person that she was fooling was herself. 

The hallucinations started with sounds. 

Sounds are the worst, she thinks. Being able to deny visual hallucinations is easy. or easier. Being able to stop hearing stuff when it’s all in your head is not easy at all. She kept hearing the loud bam! even when she was asleep. She heard her friends crying when she stepped into the shower. Once, Cleo had tricked her into attending a festival in Charleston, and Kiara almost ran into traffic when she heard JJ’s voice among the crowd, calling her name. 

Yo, Kie, come here!

The hallucinations escalated. It felt like watching a horror movie where she was the protagonist. She moved into a new house, and during the first night, she heard weird noises. 

The second night, she started seeing things. 

Glimpses of wild blond hair in crowded streets. Someone wearing C.H.U.D t-shirts, that suddenly weren’t when she took a closer look. Groff standing behind her when she caught a glimpse of herself reflected on a window. 

She had to be dragged to the psychologist’s office, then the psychiatrist’s office, to be told the same thing “ It’s important to remember that these are just hallucinations ” She had laughed each time. Of course she knew that. Of course she knew it wasn’t Groff in the corner of her room; she had killed him. Of course it wasn’t JJ calling her name; he had died in her arms.

But knowing didn’t make it any less real.

Getting rid of the hallucinations seemed impossible. She tried everything, but nothing worked. She got desperate. Then she did something really, really stupid .  

That had worked, just not the way Kiara had planned. 

It made her snap out of it. 

Once she got better and all that shit, she began doing something her new therapist had suggested. 

She started imagining herself somewhere far away, high in the hills, lying on soft grass that smelled of rain. The sky above her was endless, impossibly blue. And every hallucination—every laugh, scream, and face—became a cloud.

JJ’s playful laugh was a cloud. Groff ‘s agonizing voice became a cloud. 

Endless pain, endless clouds. 

Fluffy white clouds wherever she looked.

She let them drift. She watched them fade into the horizon, carried off by the wind.

Watch the clouds, acknowledge them, let them drift away.

Nine times out of ten, it worked. The pain lifted. Her thoughts silenced. The ache in her chest hurt just a little less.

She thinks about that now. 

Because the hallucinations are back.

JJ is back. 

He’s right there. 

Of course he isn’t, Kiara , the doctors with white coats would say, but he is. 

She sees him. Really sees him. The stunned look in his eyes, the way his lips part as though he’s going to speak, the way his body shifts, stumbling back a step as if she’s the ghost haunting him. She hears the faint thud of his footfalls against the floor, every sound so sharp it cuts. 

Kiara tries to turn him into a cloud. She’s on the hill again. The sky stretches above her, waiting for her to let him go. 

She closes her eyes, and she makes him into a cloud, watches it drift away, reminds herself hallucinations are not real. 

JJ is dead . 

And as she imagines him drifting away, she tells herself he will disappear any second now.

Any second now. 

All she’s gotta do is open her eyes and he will be long gone. 

So she opens them and he’s still there.

He’s still there.

How do you get rid of hallucinations ?

You step back.

It’s another coping mechanism she learned from the shrinks. When the hallucination doesn’t go away on its own, you step back. You create distance and leave. If the hallucination doesn’t leave, you leave. 

She’s gotta step back. She’s ready to leave, to leave him behind, when his voice breaks through the silence. 

— Kie? — 

Fuck, his voice . 

Her stomach twists violently, her breath catching in her throat. She flinches, her body recoiling as if his voice had physically struck her. Eyes glued to the floor, she stares at the wooden planks, trying to ground herself, trying to convince herself this isn’t happening. If she doesn’t look, it won’t be real. If she doesn’t look, she won’t have to fall apart.

But his voice pierces through her defenses. She can avoid his eyes, but she cannot avoid the sound. That voice clings to her, sinking deep into her chest like a weight she can’t shake.

It’s hoarse, soft but ragged. If she wanted to believe, she’d call it broken. Desperate.

The worst part is, it sounds so achingly real.

Her hands start to tremble. She starts to tremble. She doesn’t even notice at first, doesn’t realize she’s shaking until her legs bump against the coffee table, the sharp edge biting into the back of her thighs. She nearly falls, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Panic claws its way up her throat. 

She knows what’s happening. 

Like an idiot, she’s triggered herself into a panic attack. Her chest tightens, her vision blurs, and she stumbles back again, desperate to put space between herself and the thing .

She just wants to leave. 

Make the hallucination stop. 

Be able to fucking breath. 

But then, to her horror, the hallucination steps forward.

— Kie, wait… —

It’s reaching for her, the hand outstretched, the movement deliberate. Too deliberate. Too fluid for her brain to process, for the JJ-shaped figure in front of her to be anything but real.

— No! —  Her voice cracks as she yells, loud and raw, a mixture of fear and rage. She isn’t even sure who she’s yelling at. At him? At herself? — Don’t you dare —

She hears a gasp. It eats her alive, the fact that it sounds so much like him. Before, before when the hallucinations happened so often they turned mundane, it never sounded this much like him. There was always a distance between his real voice, the voice she remembered, and the creation of her mind.

— Please don’t — She chokes out, her voice breaking as tears prick her eyes. — Please, just stop. —

Stop tricking my brain. Stop being there. 

Stop being dead.

— Kie, baby… — he says again, his voice quieter this time, filled with something that feels too much like worry. Can hallucinations worry?  

He steps closer, hesitating now, like he’s afraid he might break her if he moves too fast. The words hurt. They physically hurt. The way he says baby fucking sets her heart aflame and turns it into dust. 

Kiara cannot stop herself from looking at his eyes. 

She lets herself really see .

She sees his eyes. JJ’s eyes.

The same eyes she remembers so well. The same eyes she would be able to pick at first glance. How can it be a hallucination if they are the exact same pair of eyes? 

His eyes . She rationalizes, or better said, she tries to, tells herself, no Kiara, those are not JJ’s eyes. JJ is dead. It’s all in your head. Go back outside. 

But she knows better, because, fuck, God, those are his eyes. 

The realization hits her like a truck. She falls. She doesn’t even realize she’s falling until she hits the floor, all too fast to even comprehend. The panic swallows her whole, crushing her chest, and her hands fly to her throat, clawing at the skin there, desperate to find air that won’t come. 

Her vision blurs as tears spill over, hot and unrelenting, streaking down her face. Her head feels too light, spinning uncontrollably, and the sound of her gasping fills the room.

Somewhere in the haze, hallucination JJ moves closer.

Her mind screams at her to get away, but her body betrays her, too drained, too suffocated to fight back. She doesn’t have the strength to push herself away, doesn’t even have the strength to crawl.

He touches her.

A warm hand brushes against her arm, steady and solid. It sends a shock through her spine. It feels like electricity, and it burns her skin, because it’s the same electric shock she would feel when JJ touched her. 

Her head shakes furiously, a broken record of disbelief and panic.

— No, no, no, no — she whimpers, her voice cracking, her body trembling under his hands.

— Shhh — His voice is soft and familiar. It’s too much, too real. He pulls her against him, his arms strong and sure as they encircle her shaking frame. — It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay —

It’s not okay.

She shakes her head violently, tears streaking down her face, her breathing hitching in sharp, painful bursts. — No — she chokes out between sobs. — Not okay. Not…. what the fuck is happening? —

He feels so warm and solid against her. They don’t stop, the realizations. Even when she hallucinated, it never felt this real.

The room spins again, and her body writhes weakly in his hold. She struggles, her panic clawing at her from the inside out, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm and tender at the same time. 

— Kie, it’s me — he murmurs into her hair, his voice trembling now, raw with emotion. His hands stroke her back, slow and soothing.

Kiara tries her best to escape his embrace and crawl away. She stumbles, JJ’s hands desperately reaching. He holds her by her arm, eyes begging her not to leave. She keeps shaking her head. No, it’s not okay. No, you’re not alive.

— Kie, please. It’s me —

Their heads are so close that she can recognize every emotion on his face. 

His face is different and yet the same. Two years older. The faint scruff along his jaw, a scar she doesn’t remember. And those blue eyes—he looks so close to crying. 

And then, to her horror, he sobs.

A broken, raw sound that rips from his throat. His eyes glisten, the tears slipping free as he attempts to pull her closer. This time, when he reaches for her again, she doesn’t fight it.

No—this time, she grips him.

Her arms wrap around him with a force she didn’t know she had left, holding onto him like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. And she cries. Deep, wrenching sobs that shake her entire body as she buries her face in his chest. He feels warm, and solid, and oh God, is she dreaming?

It’s him.

— JJ? —

— Yes, baby — His arms tighten around her, his voice thick with emotion. — I’m really here —

— Jage? — She clutches at his shirt, her hands fisting the fabric as though he might vanish if she lets go.

— Yes, Kie. It’s me. I’m here —

— Am I going insane? — She asks. JJ laughs, relieved when she finally stops fighting to get away. 

— No, Kie. You’re not—

No, she’s not insane. It’s really him.

Oh my God.  

JJ presses his lips to her forehead, the kiss lingering as if he’s afraid to pull away. Then his mouth is moving across her skin—her temples, her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, her jaw, her hair. Every inch of her face, except her lips, is met with the desperate press of his lips.

— I missed you so fucking much, Kie — he breathes between kisses on skin, his voice breaking as fresh tears spill down his cheeks. — So, so much. You have no idea —

She still clings to him, her arms locked around him like she’s afraid he’ll disappear again. And maybe she is . Maybe this is some cruel joke, some fever dream designed to break her all over again. But he’s here. He’s warm . His heartbeat thunders beneath her cheek, fast and frantic, mirroring her own. If this is a dream, she never wants to wake up. 

JJ buries his face in her hair. His lips brush her temple, soft murmurs slipping from him—things she barely catches, things that sound like prayers.

Time passes. How much, Kiara is not sure. It feels like hours and also only seconds. She has spent the past two years praying for this, and knowing it would never happen. Now that it is actually happening, she doesn’t want the moment to end. 

They hold each other. After a while, once they’ve both stopped crying, she pulls back just enough to look at him, her vision blurred by tears. — How? — It’s all she can manage.

— I’ll tell you later, yeah? — he says softly. He tilts her chin up, his thumb brushing against her skin as their eyes meet. — I love you. You hear me? I love you so fucking much. I’m so sorry for leaving you —

I love you too. She wants to say. But instead, she shakes her head.

Not to his sorry. Not to his silence. Not to the way he’s avoiding her question.

— Jage — she chokes, a sob strangling the word in her throat. — What are you doing here? How are you here? — She swallows hard, her whole body shaking. — I don’t understand. You… You were dead. I don’t — Her breath hitches violently. — How is this possible? —

JJ exhales, his grip tightening around her. His hands are in her hair, his fingers moving in slow, familiar strokes, soothing in a way that makes her heart splinter further. — I know. I’ll explain. I promise. But right now I just want to kiss you, Kie —

A strangled sound escapes her, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. She almost nods, but Kiara Carrera is consistent above anything else. She can’t carry on as if nothing is wrong. As if this is normal. 

— Jage, c’mon. You were dead! — She is so close to yelling, tears still wetting her eyes as she looks at him — Please, please … How are you here? Please tell me what is going on. I’m losing my mind here  —

JJ sighs. She can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, but she needs to talk about it. 

Just when it looks JJ has decided to start speaking, the door slams open.

Kiara flinches, her whole body seizing up, her fingers locking onto JJ’s shirt like a lifeline. For an instant, she thinks maybe someone is barging in to take him away from her. Maybe JJ broke the rules of the universe and escaped heaven, and now they are coming to take him back. It’s a crazy thought, literally nuts, but Kiara still brings her body closer to him and grabs his hand, because there’s no way she will let the universe separate them again. Her delusion is soon over, because instead of strange faces, she’s staring right into familiar eyes.

Sarah, Rafe, and John B suddenly come to view.

A world colliding. No— two worlds colliding.

Kiara’s and JJ’s on one side, holding hands, looking all kinds of broken. 

And then Sarah, John B, and Rafe , looking all kinds of shocked.

Kiara, still holding onto JJ, tries to speak. Tell them JJ is back. G uys, he came back. I don’t know how, but he’s here. She can tell they see him too. 

They see him. 

They have to see him.

But then John B opens his mouth, and what comes out is the dumbest thing she’s ever heard in her entire life.

— Kiara, what the fuck? I sent an employee to pick you up and you were nowhere to be seen —

Kiara laughs .

She laughs; it’s actually really funny. John B is freaking out about her not being outside, but JJ is here . If she hadn’t ventured inside, she wouldn’t have seen JJ. Maybe he would have ventured outside, and gotten lost. She found JJ. Why isn’t John B losing his mind? Why isn’t Sarah running to hug him? Why aren’t they acknowledging him? For a split second, Kiara doesn’t understand. 

Her breath shakes as she tries to steady herself, tries to push past the absurdity of it. — John B… Sarah… — 

Do you see him? Please see him.

She looks over at JJ. She looks at JJ. It’s a crazy thought. She’s actually looking at him. It’s not a hallucination, she triple-checked. It’s really him. But their friends aren’t freaking out? What the fuck? What the actual fuck? She looks back at JJ, at the boy she lost , at the boy she mourned . He’s right there, warm and breathing. He’s breathing . He’s alive . 

And then she looks at John B again.

At Sarah.

At Rafe.

They aren’t moving. They aren’t speaking.

They aren’t freaking the fuck out .

No one is running to him, no one is crying, no one is collapsing in relief. No one is acknowledging that the dead has risen .

It hits her.

The realization comes fast, but it unravels painfully slow , dragging her down with it, making sure she feels every second of the betrayal sinking its claws into her ribs. It dawns on her. She figures it out as soon as her eyes travel between her friends and JJ. It is like watching your world collide with another. So fast yet giving you enough time to process everything that’s happening. 

They knew .

John B. Sarah. Rafe.

They knew .

They knew JJ was alive.

And they didn’t tell her.

They aren’t running to JJ because they know he’s back. 

They aren’t surprised because he was staying in their fucking house. 

She gets to remember everything that has happened in the last three weeks. That afternoon in Poguelandia, when Cleo stepped out of the car and Kiara immediately knew something was off. Sarah’s messages, or more specifically, the lack of them.

Three.

Fucking.

Weeks.

Her stomach twists. Her hands go numb. The worst betrayal she’d ever known used to be Sarah Cameron shutting her out. That was nothing. That was a scratch compared to this.

Kiara stumbles back, one hand clutching her chest, trying to steady herself, trying to breathe. JJ moves with her, reaching out, his hands warm and familiar as they settle on her arms. He can read her better than anyone, and right now, he knows she’s breaking.

She lets him hold her for a second, just a second. Then she looks up, eyes darting between John B, Sarah, and Rafe, searching— begging —for some kind of valid explanation.

— JJ is here — she says, voice cracking, looking straight at John B. — It’s him ! And you aren’t freaking out — She swallows, trying to keep herself together, but the words are already spilling. — Can you please tell me it’s not what I think it is? —

Silence.

Her heartbeat is in her throat.

— C’mon! — she snaps, voice sharp and furious — Fucking talk! —

John B hesitates. That alone is an answer.

— Kie… —

She shakes her head, laughing bitterly. — This whole time… This whole fucking time? — Her voice breaks on the last word. — I can’t…. I can’t fucking believe y’all. You fucking knew! — she breathes, her gaze cutting through them. She watches the way their faces drop, the way the guilt settles heavy in their eyes. It makes her sick. — That’s why you were acting weird. You knew he was alive. — Her voice shakes as she turns back to JJ, who looks awfully guilty. She wants to tell him he’s got nothing to be guilty for, but she’s too focused on yelling at the three people in front of her — He’s alive, and you knew! —

— Kie, please, let me explain — John B tries to speak. 

She laughs again, sharp and humorless. — Oh, you don’t get to explain shit! —

— Kie, we thought… — Sarah starts, stepping forward like she’s willing to face Kiara’s rage. — We were going to tell you . We wouldn’t…. We were planning on telling you today —

— Oh, today?! — Kiara’s voice is filled with disbelief. — That’s so much better, Sarah. Thank you so fucking much for your consideration —

JJ reaches for her again, his fingers brushing against hers, grounding her. For a second, she lets herself lean into him, lets his touch calm her down.

And then she sees Rafe.

— You knew too —

Her voice is quieter now, but it cuts through the room like a blade.

Rafe flinches. His face is unreadable for a moment—neutral, almost cold—but then it crumbles. He looks destroyed. His throat bobs as he swallows, and then, he nods.

— Who else knows, huh? Cleo and Pope know for sure, right? You just kept this from me. Of course — Her hands shake, her breath unsteady. — Who the fuck do you think you are to decide for me? —

— We are your family , Kiara — John B pleads, stepping closer, looking desperate. — I know you’re mad, but please, please listen to us. I’m sorry. Okay? I’m fucking sorry, but please just… just listen. —

— JJ is my family too!  How would you feel if we kept something like this from you, huh, John B? — She doesn’t wait for an answer. She knows where to hit, where it hurts, and she aims directly there. — If Sarah had fucking died and came back years later, and we didn’t tell you for almost a whole month —

— Kiara, don’t fucking say that! —

John B looks like she just slapped him across the face.

His eyes widen, his whole body going rigid, his hands clenching into fists. Sarah had been close to dying in the past. In a way, John B still wasn’t over it. Kiara knows that. John B had confessed it one certain night. The mere thought of having to carry on without Sarah still makes him tremble in fear. 

Kiara doesn’t care. She still goes there.

— No, no, no. Since you all decided it was okay to keep me in the dark, answer me, John B. How would you react if Sarah had slowly died in your arms…? —

— Kie, calm the fuck down —

It’s not John B this time.

It’s Rafe.

— Listen to your friends — he says, his tone edged with frustration. It surprises them all. But especially, it surprises JJ. 

It also bothers him. 

— Don’t take this personally, dude — JJ speaks up for the first time, his voice light but sharp, a mocking tone. Kiara knows him . She still knows JJ. She knows JJ has been wanting to kick out Rafe the second he saw him. — but what the fuck are you doing here? —

Kiara freezes.

Rafe, her boyfriend , stares at JJ, something dark flickering in his blue eyes. His jaw clenches, his shoulders tense—he looks like he’s trying very, very hard not to react.

Then, he shifts his gaze.

Straight to Kiara.

— Are you gonna tell him? —

The room falls eerily silent.

JJ frowns. He seems like he expected anything but that. His gaze flickers between them, between the unreadable look on Rafe’s face and the sudden stiffness in Kiara’s posture.

Then, he turns fully to her. 

— Tell me what? —

Kiara’s stomach drops.

— Kie? —

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying her, like he’s seeing something he missed before. Confusion setting in.

— Tell me what, Kie? —

— JJ… — Her voice barely makes it out of her throat.

— Tell me what , Kie? — He insists. 

— I…  — She swallows hard. — Why don’t we talk later? —

JJ lets out a hollow laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. — No, no — His voice is sharp, his patience thinning fast. He jerks his chin toward Rafe. — He said — he points at him — that you need to tell me something. What is it, Kie? —

She can’t. Instead, she looks right straight to Rafe, eyes confused and hurt. She shakes her head, silently asking why.

Why, Rafe? Why?

Rafe clenches his jaw. It’s like he’s saying, you know why . 

— Either you tell him, or I tell him — His gaze is locked onto hers, unrelenting. — It’s up to you, Kie —

JJ’s head snaps toward Rafe so fast it makes her flinch — Tell me what!? What the fuck is going on? — 

Rafe doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften the blow. He doesn’t even look sorry when he’s done talking. 

— That Kiara and I are a couple —

Kiara physically recoils, like she’s just been stabbed . She figures getting stabbed probably hurts less than this. 

She keeps demanding an explanation from Rafe, eyes wide and pained, but he simply looks away. 

— Stop talking shit , Rafe — JJ seethes. She knows he doesn’t believe a word. Probably think it’s some sick joke. He turns back to Kiara, waiting for her to do what she’s always done. Tell Rafe to shut up, roll her eyes, scoff and say she would rather be dead than be with Rafe Cameron.

Instead, he sees the tears in her eyes.

He sees the way she doesn’t deny it.

— Kie… Is that… Is Rafe saying the fucking truth? —

Kiara can’t do anything but slowly nod. 

JJ steps back.

— What the fuck, Kiara!? ” —

JJ’s voice is raw, wrecked , filled with something Kiara doesn’t think she’s ever heard from him before. He shakes his head, his expression twisting into something furious, something devastated . — What the actual fuck!? —

There’s rage painted across his blue eyes, his fists clenched at his sides as he takes a few menacing steps toward Rafe, but John B is already moving.

— JJ, don’t — John B warns, his hands coming up to stop him.

So JJ redirects his rage straight to Kiara. 

— What the fuck is wrong with you, Kie? — His voice is laced with disbelief — Rafe? You are fucking Rafe? —

— JJ, don’t say that to her —

Sarah’s voice cuts in, sharp and protective, but JJ isn’t listening.

His eyes are locked onto Kiara, searching for something, anything that will make this make sense, anything that will make this not real.

But it is real.

And it’s crushing him.

— Jage, I’m sorry —

— Don’t fucking call me that —

He takes another step back like the sound of her voice is physically repelling him.

— Don’t…— His hands fly to his hair, gripping at the strands, his fingers shaking. — Don’t fucking… I can’t do this. I can’t —

His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s like something inside him is breaking too. 

— I can’t be in the same room as you —

He shoves past Rafe so hard the older boy stumbles back, but JJ doesn’t care. He doesn’t even look at him. He just runs, pushing through the doorway and out into the day as if the house was on fire.

— JJ, stop! —

Kiara doesn’t hesitate.

She chases after him, her feet moving before her mind can even process it, but John B steps in her way, grabbing her by the arm.

— Give it some time, Kie —

— No! You kept him from me! How could you do that? You are supposed to be my best friend, John B — she snaps, yanking her arm free. Her whole body is shaking, her chest rising and falling like she can’t breathe. — You don’t have the right to tell me what to do! —

Her head whips toward Rafe, her eyes blazing.  — Why did you have to do this?! Why?! Why did you have to tell him?! —

Rafe can’t even hold her stare. 

— I was going to tell him —  she says, voice breaking. — I just… I needed time. Why did you do this? Can’t you see he’s hurting?  —

— When? When were you going to tell him? — Rafe cuts in coldly. — After he kissed you? —

Against her will, she thinks of JJ’s words from earlier. But right now I just want to kiss you.

She almost wants to ask him, so what if he did? but bites her tongue, because obviously she can’t say that. Rafe is her boyfriend . 

JJ is her former boyfriend who died .

— What the fuck is wrong with you, Rafe?! — She says instead, her voice  raw and furious, and before she even realizes what she’s doing, she shoves him with both hands.

Rafe stumbles back a step, but he doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t even look angry. 

— He just got back. Minutes ago, I thought he was dead! —

Rafe lets out a breath, shaking his head. — I came here to tell him. That’s why I’m here, Kiara. He had to find out somehow — He scoffs under his breath. — And please don’t fucking say you were gonna tell him. We both know you wouldn’t —

She opens her mouth, but no words come out.

Because deep down, she knows he’s right.

That’s what she does best. Avoid situations until they blow in her face, and then, when they do, she runs away.

Which is exactly what she’s going to do now. 

She needs to leave this fucking house. 

She pushes past John B before he can stop her and runs out the door.

Her feet slam against the dirt as she sprints, scanning the landscape, looking for a head of wild blond hair. 

She sees him.

Near the marsh, sitting on the ground, his head between his hands.

Her stomach twists because she knows this. Kiara has seen this. She’s seen him like this before—curled in on himself, trembling, looking so small and so lost.

This is how he looks when he’s having a panic attack.

She did this to him. 

She walks to him slowly, making sure he doesn’t notice her until she’s standing right next to him. 

— Jage… —

He looks up.

And for a second, just a split second, she sees it.

The vulnerability. The hurt.

It wrecks her.

It’s her fault. 

She takes another step, reaching out, her fingertips aching to touch him, to fix this, to fix him, but his expression shifts. The pain disappears, swallowed by anger. 

— I told you to leave me the fuck alone —

Her voice cracks. 

— JJ, I thought you were dead! You can’t leave me, not right now —

JJ lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. The sound of it makes her stomach turn.

— Yeah, well — he says, voice dripping with venom — half an hour ago, I couldn’t even have imagined you were fucking Rafe Cameron, but oh well — His mouth twists, a sharp, cruel smirk on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. — A lot can happen in minutes —

The words knock the air from her lungs, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if he’s mad. He has every right to be mad.

She just needs him to listen.

Kiara drops to her knees so they are eye level with each other.

— JJ, please —

She reaches for his hand, desperate, begging, her fingers barely brushing against his before he yanks it away like her touch burns.

— Just leave, Kiara — He keeps calling her Kiara. He has stopped saying Kie, or baby. 

— No — She wants him to know she’s not leaving. She never wanted to leave him — No — she repeats, shaking her head violently. — I can’t… JJ, please just… please just let me explain —

JJ’s jaw clenches. 

— Okay —

She can’t pretend she’s not surprised.

— Okay? —

JJ nods. — Yes, Kie. Explain to me how you started fucking Rafe Cameron —

He doesn’t say dating. He doesn’t say going out or even hooking up. He says fucking, makes sure he says it with disgust. Like that’s what she is to him. Something cheap or dirty.

— Tell me — JJ continues, his voice louder. — Did you just happen to fall on his dick? Did he say, ‘I’m sorry for trying to murder you,’ and you just had to fuck him? —

— Jage, c’mon —

— Don’t fucking call me that. The Kiara from a few years ago got to call me that — he spits. — You, on the other hand. You disgust me. —

The air between them shatters.

Her lips part, but she can’t speak.

She can’t fucking breathe.

She gets up and steps back, instinctively, her body trying to protect itself from the ache, from the crushing, suffocating pain.

JJ’s expression flickers—just for a second, long enough for Kiara to think she sees something, short enough for that something to be gone instantly. 

He scoffs, shaking his head, and looking at her with pure disgust. He turns, gets up quickly, and walks away.

Kiara gasps, gripping her chest, the pressure unbearable now, the ache sinking its claws into her ribs and twisting.

Her vision is blurry, her head spinning.

She’s drowning.

She can feel it happening, the panic attack taking over, but she can’t stop it.

Her hands shake violently as she fumbles for her phone, barely able to see the screen through the tears and the dizziness.

She presses the contact.

The ringing feels like forever.

— Kiara? —

Her mom’s voice is soft, gentle, and it makes the tears fall harder.

She sucks in a ragged breath.

— Mom —

Anna Carrera can tell something is wrong immediately.  

— Kiara? — There’s a shift in her tone now. Worried, urgent. — Kiara, baby. Are you alright? —

Kiara squeezes her eyes shut, trying to calm down, trying to breathe, but it’s not working. She doesn’t want to make her mom worry. She hates herself for not being able to hold her shit together.

— I… — She swallows thickly, but it hurts. Everything hurts. — I don’t think so —

— Where are you, baby? — Her mom pleads — Where are you? Don’t move, tell me where you are, I’m coming —

— Near the Chateau — she whispers. Her fingers are still shaking as she fumbles with the location settings. — I’ll send you my location.. Please… Please come fast —

Her mother’s voice is steady when she reassures Kiara that she’s on her way, but it does little to ground her. Kiara's hands are still shaking, fingers cold, stomach twisted so tight she feels sick. The moment she ends the call, she knows she can’t stay here. 

Her legs feel disconnected from the rest of her body, but they carry her forward, fast, one step after the other. She doesn’t want to risk her friends coming out and finding her, doesn’t want to see them, especially not like this, especially not since she’s mad at them. Her feet hit the pavement too fast, but she barely registers it. 

Cars pass by, headlights blinding, honks loud and menacing as they blur past her.

She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care when a truck swerves slightly, the driver rolling down the window to curse at her. She doesn’t care when she stumbles, her knee hitting the road, scraping open. She barely registers the sting. She does her best to crawl to the grass beside the road, to where she probably won’t get run over, and waits for Anna while hugging her legs. 

She doesn’t notice her mom’s car pulling up.

She doesn’t notice when the engine cuts off, when the driver’s door slams, when footsteps rush toward her.

She only notices when firm hands grip her arms, fingers pressing into her skin. Her mother’s voice is urgent, panicked, asking over and over. Kiara, are you okay? Kiara, look at me.

Kiara blinks. 

— Can I go home? —

She doesn’t know why she says it.

She hasn’t thought of her parents’ house as home in years. But her mother doesn’t hesitate. She nods and gently guides her toward the car, opening the passenger door for her. Kiara gets in, feeling the warmth of the vehicle’s interior wrap around her, but it does nothing to shake off the cold inside her chest.

The drive is silent. The radio is off.

Kiara stares out the window, eyes unfocused, mind blank. The world passes by in smears of headlights, beaches, and signs, but she doesn’t really see anything.

Then her mother’s phone buzzes.

Kiara barely glances at it, but the name flashing across the screen makes her stomach drop.

Sarah Cameron.

Of course.

Sarah, realizing Kiara had disappeared, is probably calling to check if Anna had heard from her. 

Before her mom can even reach for the phone, Kiara grabs it herself and presses decline.Her mother exhales sharply, her eyes flicking toward Kiara as she tucks the phone away.

— What happened? — she asks carefully.

Kiara doesn’t answer.

She can feel her mother’s gaze lingering on her, she can hear the unspoken words in the silence stretching between them. She can guess what her mom is most likely thinking. That she fell apart again. A year of progress undone. 

She can almost hear the prayers. 

Please don’t do this again, Kiara. Please don’t make us go through this again.

She waits until the car pulls into the driveway. Until the engine turns off. Until the world around her is still.

Only then does she speak.

— JJ is alive —

She expects shock.

She expects her mom to turn to her, eyes wide, face twisted in confusion, to look at her like she’s lost her mind.

She expects her mom to shake her head, to say No, Kiara, he isn’t. You need to let this go. You need to move on. 

She expects disbelief, concern, maybe even fear. She expects her mom to tell her she needs to see someone again, that she’s spiraling, that she’s not thinking clearly, that maybe she needs to get back on her meds. 

She expects her mom to deny it.

What she doesn’t expect is the sad sigh that leaves Anna’s lips.

It’s quiet. Subtle. But it feels heavy, like it carries the weight of something she’s been holding in for too long.

Her mom doesn’t look at her right away. She stares straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, she finally turns to face her.

Guilt is written all over her face.

— I know —

It takes Kiara a few seconds to respond. 

— What? —

Anna opens her mouth, then closes it. Swallows thickly. 

At first, Kiara can’t believe it. There’s no way for her mom to know this. But she remembers JJ has been back for three fucking weeks, and she can see the sheer guilty written in her mother’s face. 

Kiara Carrera has always been known for being argumentative, furious at every little injustice, ready to fight the entire world if necessary.

But she has never been this angry.

— You know? — she asks, voice louder now, venom dripping from every syllable.

Her mom lets out a slow breath. — Kiara… —

— For how long? —

When her mom doesn’t dignify her with a response, she asks again. Louder, angrier. 

— For how long? —

Her mom closes her eyes. A second. Two. Three. Four.

— A while —

A while .

Kiara feels something inside her snap .

She shoves the car door open before her mother can say another word. She barely hears her mom calling her name. She doesn’t care.

She walks past the house. She knows Anna will follow her, so she starts running. 

If she knows to do something well, is to run away.

JJ has never been this angry.

The moments from before replay in his mind like a goddamn horror movie. Seeing Kiara again. Holding her. Thinking, for just a second, that things could go back to how they were—that after two years of hell, he had finally made it home. He let himself believe it. That she still belonged to him. That  they would hug and kiss and they would immediately go back to what they were. 

And then, reality struck.

Kiara and Rafe. Kiara and Rafe. Kiara was with Rafe.

The words play on a loop, over and over, until he feels physically sick. He stumbles through the chore of the marsh, hands shaking, his breath ragged. He barely even realizes how far he’s walked until marsh becomes beach.

He kicks at the sand, then at a tree, then at nothing, because there’s nothing he can destroy that will hurt as much as this.

His girl. His Kiara. With Rafe .

His fists clench. He digs his nails into his palms so hard he swears he might break the skin. Rafe Cameron, of all fucking people. If it had been anyone else, anyone—sure, he would’ve been heartbroken, but he wouldn’t be angry. But Rafe? The guy who ruined all their lives? The guy who tried to kill them? The guy who tried to kill her ? 

JJ lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. He bends forward, hands on his knees, his entire body shaking. His breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps. He wants to scream. He wants to throw up. Wants to rewind time, walk back into the Chateau, and never hear those fucking words come out of Rafe’s mouth.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. His hands are still shaking.

For a fleeting moment, he considers leaving. Walking right back to Barruca Mike’s place, telling him he was right—he hadn’t found what he was looking for, and asking him if he could crash again on his couch. 

But he knows John B would come knocking the second he realized JJ had disappeared. And airing out his personal life in front of Mike? Not tempting.

So after more pacing, more cursing at the sky, more feeling like he was being ripped apart from the inside out—he thinks of her.

And he heads back.

When he finally reaches the Chateau, he sees them before they see him.

John B, Sarah, Pope, and Cleo are in the living room, sitting together in stiff silence, the air thick with tension. They look exhausted. Hollow. Jackson is sleeping on the couch beside them. He figures the boy was with Cleo and Pope.

Sarah’s eyes are bloodshot. JJ can tell she’s been crying.

Good.

The second they spot him, their faces twist with relief.

— JJ! —

He walks right past them.

He sees how they react—shocked, waiting for him to say something —but if JJ Maybank knows to do something well, is to run away.

Because if they try to talk to him, he will lash out. He will scream. He will yell at them for not telling him. And he doesn’t want to keep fighting, especially not in front of Jackson. 

And he doesn’t want to hear their answers.

JJ locks himself inside the guest room, throwing himself onto the unmade bed with a groan. His head is pounding, his body restless with an anger he doesn’t know what to do with. He feels like he’s going to explode, like there’s a grenade about to go off in his heart. 

Then comes the knock at the door. It makes him want to rip the whole fucking house apart.

— JJ, c’mon, open up —

John B’s voice is muffled through the wood, but JJ can hear the concern in it. That only makes him feel worse. He doesn’t want concern. He wants to be left the fuck alone. He wants the world to disappear, or for himself to disappear from it. Either option works.

— Fuck you — he snaps.

Silence. Then another knock, softer this time. Hesitant. Like John B isn’t sure if he should be pushing or running in the opposite direction. JJ grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut like he can will him away, like he can force the whole world to just stop.

— I know you’re mad, but we’ve got to talk —

That does it. That ignites something inside him, something all-consuming. JJ angry is biblical, and right now, he’s feeling like the fucking reckoning.

He launches himself out of bed, throwing the door open so hard it nearly smashes against the wall. The four Pogues are standing there, their faces a mix of worry, hesitation, and fear.

— What the fuck do you want, John B? — 

John B sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. That sight alone makes JJ’s blood boil. He doesn’t want to deal with whatever sad, regretful bullshit John B is about to say.

— I know I messed up — John B says, but JJ is already shaking his head, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his lips.

— Yeah, you fucking did — 

Pope and Cleo shift uncomfortably, like they wish they were anywhere else. Even Sarah looks uneasy, her arms wrapped around herself like she doesn’t know whose side she’s supposed to be on.

— Look, JJ… Kie and Rafe… —

JJ’s whole body goes rigid. The name alone is enough to make him nauseous.

— Don’t . I don’t want to hear whatever shit you’ve got to say. I don’t care. She’s fucking Rafe Cameron? I don’t care. — The words taste like poison in his mouth. But he forces them out, forces himself to say them like they’re true.

— JJ… — Sarah starts, but JJ interrupts her. 

— No, Sarah. I don’t give a shit. I don’t care about her. — 

— You know you don’t mean that — 

— Who are you to tell me what I mean or not? I fucking mean it. I don’t want anything to do with her. She would do me a favor if she never showed her face again.

The words come out fast, furious. He doesn’t mean it, and the Pogues know it as well, but it still makes them look at him all shocked. 

— JJ! — Sarah yells at him — Stop, dude. You are talking about Kie. —

JJ leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest like he couldn't care less. 

— Yes, Kie who is fucking your psycho brother. —

Sarah's face twists with fury, and before he even sees it coming, she shoves him. Hard. He stumbles back a step, surprised, even startled. For a second, he allows himself to feel guilty. 

— Stop talking about her like that! I know you are hurting, but you don’t know shit!  —

JJ lets out a cold, humorless laugh.

— Nor do I want to know. Like I said, I don’t care. She can disappear off the face of the Earth for all I care. —

— Don’t ever say that again. — Sarah’s voice is sharp, almost shaking. Her hands are balled into fists, knuckles white. She’s Sarah Cameron, Kook princess, so the sight is almost funny, but JJ is a little thrown off by how angry she seems — I swear to God, JJ. She’s hurting. She thought you were dead. And you treated her like shit… And now she won’t pick up my calls and I… —

Her voice breaks at the end, and it has an effect on him. He feels like crying again. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his throat working as he swallows, but he doesn’t let the cracks show. Instead, he shrugs, playing the part of someone who doesn’t give a damn.

— Whose fault is that? Y’all wanted it to be like this. —

Sarah lets out a sharp breath, her face contorted with frustration, but there’s something else there too. Guilt. Pain. The weight of knowing they all played a part in this disaster.

— Yes, JJ. We obviously wanted this shit to happen. We are the shittiest friends. That’s what you think, right?  —

— Let’s all calm down . Look, we just need to track down Kie… — John B tries to moderate the conversation before JJ and Sarah start arguing

— Her mom says she just ran off! — Sarah’s voice is almost frantic now. — I told you, John B. I told you I didn’t feel good about all this. I fucking told you. —

John B scoffs, arms crossing tightly over his chest. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days, even though he looked fine yesterday. 

— Now it’s my fault? That’s what you’re trying to say? —

— It kinda is. — Cleo’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and when JJ looks at her, she’s watching him with an unreadable expression. — All of y’alls fault actually. —

— Now is not the time, Cleo. — Pope tries to intervene, but she just shakes her head.

— It wasn’t the time when I told y’all it was gonna blow up in your faces. When is it the time, then? Should’ve let ‘em see each other. —

— Should’ve told me the truth so I could’ve made the decision not to see her. — 

John B lets out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair, looking even more exhausted. — C’mon, dude. It’s Kie. You don’t actually mean that —

— It’s not my Kie. It’s not the Kie I used to know. People change, she changed, and I’m not interested in getting to know the Kie that dates Rafe Cameron. —

The words taste like poison on his tongue, but he lets them out anyway. Because maybe if he says it enough, he’ll start believing it.

Chapter Text

It hits her on a random Tuesday. One month and a half since Chandler Groff had died—been killed. Two weeks and one day after she and Rafe came back to the Outer Banks.

Four months since JJ Maybank took his last breath. Four months since he was ripped from her world, leaving behind nothing but memories and a gaping, unfillable void.

The past months, Kiara had orbited in what felt like a bitter mix of numbness and desperation. Some days, it felt like struggling to breathe, gasping for air in a sea of grief that kept dragging her under. Other days, she was so numb to everything, so numb it scared her. She was still in shock, or at least that’s what Sarah said when she thought Kiara wasn’t listening. Maybe it was true. Maybe a part of her simply couldn’t process the fact that JJ was gone. Forever. That there was no getting him back, no miracle, no do-over. Just an empty space until the day she died and hopefully they got reunited. 

Since the age of five, JJ had been a constant in Kiara’s life. He was there. He was always there. No matter what, she could always count on looking over her shoulder and finding him by her side. Even when they grew up and JJ started skipping school to hide the bruises on his face. Even when she left him during her Kook Year. Even through the fights, the times they weren’t speaking,

the two times Kiara was kidnapped. Even then, she knew JJ was going to be there. She never doubted it. Never feared it wouldn’t be true. Because it always had been.

But now? Now he wasn’t there. 

She thought she had braced for this. For the moment it would really hit. But nothing could have prepared her for the way it crushed her when the realization finally came. 

JJ wasn’t near. JJ was never going to be near her again.

He was gone.

And she couldn’t fucking breathe.

That Tuesday, Sarah was driving her to the police station. There were things that still needed to be fixed. Luckily the police charges had been dropped months before, but now they had other issues. Issues Kiara needed to fix. Sarah was talking to her about something, she doesn't remember what anymore. She just knows one moment she was fine, and the next one, she was not. 

Her hands started shaking before she even realized what was happening. She stared down at them, flexing her fingers, willing them to stop, but they wouldn’t. Something about her hands felt odd. They didn't look like her hands, not really. Her lungs tightened, her throat closed up.

The car was too small, the walls were closing in.

— Kiara?  —

Sarah’s voice barely reached her. Kiara couldn’t look at her, couldn’t say anything, couldn’t do anything but grip her knees and try to remember how to breath.

Sarah touched her arm, gentle, cautious, and Kiara flinched like she’d been burned. Sarah’s hand pulled back instantly.

— Hey, hey, it’s okay — she said, soft and careful. — Breathe, Kie. Just breathe —

Kiara squeezed her eyes shut. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. But it wasn’t working. The pressure in her chest was unbearable, pushing, pushing, pushing until she was sure she would crack wide open and spill out onto the floor.

She needed air. She needed space. 

She needed JJ.

But JJ wasn’t there.

Of course she knew he was gone. She knew what death meant. But somehow, the reality of it didn’t hit her until then.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

It hits her on a random Tuesday. 

From that day forward, it only got worse. 

It wasn’t just that he was gone—it was that the world had already started moving on without him. 

His clothes no longer smelled like him. The worn-out t-shirts she refused to wash had lost his scent, and she couldn't even trick herself into believing he had just been there. The hairbrush she had hidden under her pillow, the one with strands of his blonde hair tangled in the bristles, had been thrown away by Cleo after she found it. The room they had made their own had been repossessed by some soulless developers, stripped of every trace that they had ever been there. His things were disappearing, piece by piece, as if the world was actively trying to erase the proof that JJ Maybank had ever existed.

His father had never really been his father.

His real father had killed him. She then killed his father. 

His mother had been dead for almost two decades. His grandfather was buried six feet under.

He had no children. 

The realization hit her like a brick wall. There was nothing tying him to this Earth anymore. The world kept spinning without him. The Pogues were slowly moving on. Sarah was excited about her pregnancy. John B was working on getting them a new home. Pope had just passed his GED and was now preparing for the ECU admission test. Cleo was dreaming of opening her own restaurant. 

Future shined bright for them. 

For Kiara, it didn’t.

There was no future without JJ. 

She clung to the pieces of him that remained, no matter how small, no matter how much it hurt. And she could feel it—the unspoken expectation from her friends, the way they tried to gently guide her forward, away from him, away from this . They wanted her to be happy. They wanted her to make plans, to talk about the future, to smile for the first time in four months. They wanted her to believe that happiness was still possible, even now.

They were wrong, though.

Because there was no happiness without JJ. 

The thought of it—of a life where she learned to be okay again, where she moved forward, where the pain dulled into something distant and manageable—made her chest ache so deeply she could barely breathe.

Because one day—not today, not tomorrow, but someday—she might wake up and realize she couldn’t remember the exact way he laughed. She might struggle to recall the way his voice sounded in the dark when he whispered to her. She might go an entire day without thinking about him. 

And that terrified her more than anything.

Because healing meant letting go.

And letting go meant losing him all over again.

Does she even want to be happy again?

No. Because being happy again means moving on, that’s what they tell her, and she doesn’t want to move on. Moving on means forgetting, and she refuses to forget. So she chooses the grief that keeps her pressed against her bed, suffocating, immobilizing, but at least it’s evidence that he existed. If she has to carry this grief for the rest of her life, she will do it gladly, because that way, he’s never really gone. She will keep him anchored to her mind, her heart, her soul. The moment his memory fades, even just slightly, will be the moment her heart stops beating. She’s certain of it.

The problem is that that moment might come sooner than expected.

She can’t bring herself to care, but she knows her friends are freaking out. She never leaves her room—the room that used to be theirs in the condo—but that doesn’t stop them from hovering over her. First, they try to be gentle. Kind words as they bring her water and food she doesn’t touch. John B and Sarah are always there when she wakes up crying from a nightmare that isn’t a nightmare at all—it’s just replaying what actually happened. Sarah even tries to cheer her up by saying what JJ would have wanted. JJ would have wanted you to be happy. JJ wouldn’t like to see you like this.

Sarah is the only one who dares to speak his name, and Kiara wants to be grateful for that, she really does. But what she actually feels is anger. So much anger. She gets angry at Sarah for speaking for JJ, as if she knows what he would have wanted. She gets angry at John B for refusing to say his name, for acting like if they ignore it, they can all just move on. She gets angry at Pope for crying so much. She gets angry at Cleo for trying to drag her outside, thinking that sunshine and the ocean will fix her. She gets angry at the world, at time, at herself. She knows it’s unfair, they don't deserve her anger, but she can’t stop it. She can’t stop it.

Not when she still sees him. Not when she still hears him.

She made the mistake of confiding in Sarah about the damn hallucinations. 

She had come back to the Outer Banks expecting her friends to be furious. After all, she had left them stranded and penniless in Morocco when she decided to go to Lisbon alone with Rafe. She left them with no options but to come back home. She had done it to keep JJ’s last wish alive— keep them safe —but she still felt guilty. So when she returned and, surprisingly, they weren’t angry, she figured she owed them honesty. She owed them an explanation.

Sarah, sometimes I hear him.

What do you mean?

Sometimes I hear him. Yesterday I saw him. He was there and then he wasn’t.

She didn’t expect Sarah to look at her the way she did. She reacted badly. Worse than Kiara anticipated. Already on edge, too close to breaking, too pregnant to not freak out. Her panic was instant, frantic. Kiara needed help. Now.

She basically dragged her to a psychologist office. The shrink’s face cracked when Kiara spoke about the hallucinations, just slightly, just enough for her to see the unease beneath their professionalism. And after the session, they passed her along like she was a bomb, too volatile, too dangerous to handle alone.

A psychiatrist. Then a specialist.

PTSD. Depression.

Sarah sat beside her while the doctor listed medications she needed to take if she wanted to get better. 

She didn’t want to get better.

The moment they said PTSD, she smiled. Smiled. Like some kind of lunatic, looking down at the floor so Sarah wouldn’t see.

Because thank God.

Now there was proof. Proof that JJ had existed. That their love had been real.

The hallucinations didn’t stop. They got worse. Along with them came the paranoia. She felt like she was always being watched, followed. Once she heard noises around the condo during the early morning. She came running to John B and Sarah’s room to check if they were alright. They woke up startled, Kiara by their side, telling them to please wake up. 

She was losing her mind. H er friends knew it. 

They didn’t say it out loud, but she could feel it. The way they exchanged looks when she flinched at nothing. The way Cleo tried to distract her whenever she stared too long at a spot where he should have been. The way John B kept his distance, like being around her was just too much. And Sarah—Sarah, who was always trying so hard to fix things—Sarah was the worst of them all. Because she was so scared. Scared for Kiara. Scared of Kiara.

The worst part of all of this? The worst, most gut-wrenching, terrifying part?

Kiara didn’t want the hallucinations to stop.

She wanted to keep hearing him. She wanted to live in the moments where she could pretend, just for a second, that he was still here. He almost never showed up in her dreams. Daydreaming he was alive was too painful. So, for her, the hallucinations were a blessing.

One month after she came back from Morocco, Pope has a mental breakdown and almost kicks down the door of her room.

That day, Kiara decides she’s had enough. 

The Pogues had become unbearable. They all felt the need to fix her, which sucked because Kiara didn’t want to be fixed. Most days, John B and Sarah argued. John B thought Kiara to be dragged into the sun, shoved back into life whether she wanted it or not. Sarah thought enough love, enough patience, would pull her back on its own. They argued in hushed voices, but Kiara always heard them. She heard everything they had to say about her. 

She’s clearly not fine. 

We need to do something. 

What if we call her parents? Maybe she needs to see them.

I’m worried. 

She needs to get up. It’s been almost five months. 

You are too harsh on her, John B.

You are too soft on her, Sarah.

However, the one who has been handling the situation the worst is Pope. John B and Sarah are a mess, but then again, it goes with their nature. Pope is more cynical. He keeps his shit together. But something about seeing Kiara completely giving up throws him off orbit. He comes every day and knocks on her door. He pleads with her. Kie, please. You need to eat. Kie, I’m worried.

He sounds so worried she desperately wants to get up, but she simply can’t. One month and a few days pass until he snaps. She hears him when she enters the condo and stomps to her door.

Kiara, it’s been a month, open the damn door. 

In her best voice, she tells him to go away. I’m fine, Pope . Pope obviously doesn't believe her, because he tries to kick the door down. 

Fuck off, Pope! She yells. The last thing she hears is Cleo’s humorless laugh until the door is kicked open and thrown off its hinges. 

— Cleo, what the actual fuck? —

Cleo doesn’t even talk to her as she dismantles the door and fucking takes it away. 

— You ain’t kidding anyone. Kie, you're clearly not fine. You need to move — Cleo says, her voice firm, her hands working. — You can't stay in bed rotting forever. I'm taking away the door until you start moving again —

The words burrow under Kiara’s skin. She decides then to follow Cleo’s advice. Maybe she does need to move. 

They have money now. A lot of money. All thanks to Groff and Rafe.

Rafe.

The thought of him makes her stomach twist, the dark memories of their time in Lisbon causing her a migraine, but it also brings clarity. Rafe would help her. Rafe will help her. 

So she goes to see him. It’s surreal, standing in front of him, asking for something, not hurling accusations or looking at him with disgust. That was their dynamic before. Hatred. Spite. Now there’s something else. A strange understanding. A mutual destruction.

— I need to move. Like tomorrow —

Rafe doesn’t ask questions. Maybe because he doesn’t care, maybe because he already knows Kiara won’t change her mind. Either way, he finds her a nice apartment in the Cut. She cannot fathom living in Figure Eight, especially since she has been dodging her parents in a way that could qualify her for the Olympics, and the Cut reminds her more of him. Of JJ. The apartment is new and the landlord doesn’t care that she doesn’t have a job because Rafe Cameron is her friend. And isn’t that just the most fucked up thing? Rafe Cameron is her friend.

The day she leaves, it’s a fucking battle. She doesn’t bother telling Sarah and John B until she has her things packed.

She doesn’t bother with a lot of things these days.

They look at her like she’s lost her mind. Sarah starts crying almost immediately, her body shaking with sobs, and John B gets angry. Not at her exactly, but at the situation. At the fact that Sarah is in her third trimester and has been stressed shitless over Kiara. 

— What the hell is wrong with you, Kie? Why are you doing this? Sarah won’t stop crying. What the fuck is wrong with you? — She has never seen John B this angry — Can you at least look at me? Can you look at me, for Christ’s sake? You're running away? Again? —

She still doesn’t look at him as she throws her bags in the Uber’s truck and slams the car door shut. Sarah is trying to run after Kiara, desperation in her eyes, pleading, but Kiara doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look back until the very last second, and when she does, the sight of them feels like a knife to the gut. John B has to stop Sarah from falling to her knees.

Kiara hates herself.

She hates herself for making them worry.

She hates herself for not being able to stop being this way.

She hates herself for not wanting to stop being miserable. 

She hates herself for not wanting to be a better friend, a better godmother to the unborn baby. A better person. A better anything.

But the thing about self-hate is that it consumes you. It sits in your chest like a living thing, creeping into every inch of your body, poisoning the parts of you that used to be whole. The more she hates herself, the harder it is to stop, and the less she wants to get better. The less she feels like she deserves to.

When John B calls her, she threatens with calling the cops if they try to make her come back. The words taste like acid, burning her throat as she spits them out. She says the most messed up things that come to her head, things she knows will cut deep, things that will make them let go. John B is full-on yelling as she hangs up the call. She hears Sarah sobbing in the background, calling her name. 

And yet, as she lies awake in bed that night, all she can think is that she finally understands JJ.

This self-destruction thing is addicting. 

What can she do to fuck up more? What can she do to dig her own grave, lie down next to JJ in it?

One day, exactly five months after JJ died, she finds herself in front of Barry’s house.

She doesn’t remember deciding to come here. Her feet just carried her, like it was inevitable. Like the universe had always planned for her to end up here.

Barry laughs when he spots her, that wild, unhinged grin spreading across his face like he already knows what she wants. What she’s come here for.

— Well, well, well — he says, leaning against the doorway. — Didn’t think I’d be seeing Pogue royalty here —

— If you don’t tell anyone, I’ll pay double —

Getting high on weed had been making her paranoid. Getting high on coke makes her feel something other than sadness, sorrow, and anger for the first time in five months,

The trips to Barry’s become more frequent. Kiara barely remembers the last time she checked her phone, let alone responded to the endless messages from the Pogues. Dozens of unread texts, missed calls, voicemails piling up. She doesn’t need to see them. She doesn’t want to. She mutes them all.

The silence is liberating.

Without them, she doesn’t have to pretend.

It’s better this way. It has to be.

She stays far from Figure Eight and most places from the Cut, avoids any place where they might run into her. When she needs something, she orders it online. When Barry is out of town, she takes a trip up to Virginia Beach, scrolling through Telegram until she finds a supplier and sniffs three lines in a motel’s parking lot. 

She’s destroying herself piece by piece, just as she wants to. 

It’s working. 

One day she runs into Rafe.

Barry had just gotten back, and Kiara was making her usual trip to his house. She barely hesitated when she saw another car parked outside—didn’t even slow her steps. But the second she spotted Rafe standing by Barry’s porch, her stomach twisted.

He sees her immediately. And worse—he knows.

Kiara doesn’t move. Doesn’t hide. Just stands there, letting him take in the image of her. The sunken eyes, the pale skin, the weight loss she barely notices anymore. Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, just stares. And she can see it in his face—he’s disgusted. Pitying. Maybe both.

Good.

— What the fuck, Kie? What are you doing here? —

His voice is laced with disbelief, like he can’t wrap his head around the fact that she’s here, of all places.

She shrugs, her voice eerily calm. — What are you doing here? I thought you got clean. —

She knows it’s a low blow, but she wants him to hate her. She wants everyone to hate her just as much as she hates herself.

Rafe’s jaw tightens. — I’m not here for drugs. I just owe Barry some money. —

— Sure… — She doesn’t give him a chance to push further—she turns to leave.

Or tries to.

Before she can take a step, his hand is around her arm, stopping her in her tracks. The sudden contact jolts through her like a live wire, and for the first time since she started doing coke, she actually feels something other than numbness and desperation. She feels rage.

— Don’t fucking touch me! — Her voice is sharp, cutting. She yanks her arm, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

— Kiara, are you gonna tell me what the fuck you’re doing here? —

— It’s none of your business. —

— You made it my business when you invited me to Lisbon to avenge your little boyfriend. —

The mention of JJ is a knife to her heart. Without thinking, she swings at him, aiming to slap him. But Rafe is faster, catching her wrist midair and gripping it tight. Her breath hitches.

— I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you shouldn’t be here. — His voice is lower now, like he’s trying to reason with her. It pisses her off even more.

— Let me go, Rafe. —

— No. Look, Kie. I know the shit with JJ was hard, and then Groff, and then... —

— You don’t know shit! — She shouts, her voice cracking. The doing fine facade crumbles. — I can do whatever the fuck I want. You can’t stop me. I’ll call the cops and tell them everything. —

Rafe doesn’t seem affected by her threat. — You’d go down too, Kie. —

— Guess what? I don’t fucking care. And if you’re scared I’m gonna tell on you, do me a favor and fucking kill me. —

The words are out before she can stop them.

Silence.

It stretches between them, thick and suffocating. The weight of her words hangs in the air, and she sees it hit him—sees the way his expression shifts, the way he tries to progress what she means. His grip on her wrist loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales sharply and looks away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

That almost makes her regret saying it. Almost.

— Kie… —

She doesn’t let him finish. She rips her wrist from his grasp and walks away before he can say anything else.

The next morning, she wakes up to someone banging on her door. 

She already knows who it is before she even opens it.

Sarah (a very pregnant Sarah) stands there, looking at Kiara like she’s seeing her for the first time. Like she doesn’t recognize the girl standing in front of her. Her eyes flicker over Kiara’s frame, taking in the mess—the unbrushed hair, the oversized hoodie that used to fit just fine her months ago, the shadows under her eyes.

— I talked with Rafe. —

Kiara freezes. For a second, she thinks she’s been caught. If Sarah finds out she is doing drugs harder than weed, all hell will break loose. Sarah has a limit. She knows it. If she knows Kiara is using, she will try to get her into rehab, even though Kiara is not even remotely addicted.

— What… What did he tell you? —

Sarah’s voice cracks. — He said he ran into you and you… you said… Kie, are you fucking suicidal? —

Kiara swallows hard. The truth is on the tip of her tongue. For the briefest second, she considers saying it. Letting Sarah in.

The second is over almost immediately.

She forces a smile, the same one she’s been perfecting for months.

— Of course I am not. I just said that to piss him off. I’m sorry. I swear I’m not, Sarah —

She’s lying. Sarah knows it.

Chapter Text

Two years ago, Kiara became familiar with one of her worst enemies: panic attacks that lasted for days.

At first, it didn’t make sense. She had this fixed, clear idea of what panic attacks looked and felt like—overwhelming anxiety, a crushing weight on the chest, shallow breathing, and the desperate need to hold onto something real. Something solid. 

She had seen it before, had helped JJ down from them more times than she could count. She would place her hands on him, didn’t matter where, just mattered that she was touching him, skin to skin, be his something real.

Then, in a calm voice that didn’t reflect what she was actually feeling (because watching him struggle because of the lifetime of abuse he had endured made her see red) she would tell him to breathe.

Breathe, JJ. 

I’m right here. Just breathe with me. 

You’re safe. 

You’re okay.

And he would. He would melt under her touch, let his breathing sync with hers. He would press his forehead against her collarbone, gripping her like she was the only thing holding him together, and she would keep whispering to him until it passed. Until he pulled back and refused to meet her gaze, that mix of embarrassment and gratitude written all over his face.

That was Kiara’s understanding of panic attacks. They start, you can’t breath, you manage to calm the thoughts, and they end. 

She learned from experience that it wasn’t always the case.

It had started in Portugal. 

In a way, all roads seemed to lead back to Morocco and Portugal. Two countries that not long ago had meant completely different things to her, to them.

She remembers lying in bed with JJ, wrapped up in each other, lost in the same conversation they only ever had when no one else was around.

The surf trip. Their surf trip. 

Where would we go?

Like clockwork, she asked, and like clockwork, JJ answered, naming off the same countries he always did. Australia first, because it was the promised land for surfers. Then Mexico, Costa Rica, and the entirety of South America.

All of South America?  

Yeah, every country. I bet they all have nice waves.

Kiara never had the heart to tell him Bolivia was landlocked.

Then, without fail, JJ would circle back to Europe.

Italy. Spain. Portugal. Have you seen the waves they have in Nazaré? We have to go there.

Morocco was always mentioned with the other African countries, as part of a larger adventure. They would start from the southern tip of South Africa, working their way up, until they found Morocco, then went over to Europe.

Back then, Portugal and Morocco meant the future.

Somehow, they became the end.

Because JJ died in Morocco.

Because Kiara had her first week-long panic attack in Portugal, and it had started wearing that stupid, heavy crown, while tears burned down her face. Because she waited. And waited. And waited. But JJ never came back.

She now knows it was a panic attack, but it wasn’t like JJ’s. She didn’t hyperventilate. There was no sudden explosion of panic that passed after a few minutes. Instead, it was slow, creeping, like a sickness working its way through her bloodstream. The world around her turned muted, her limbs felt disconnected from the rest of her body, and an unbearable weight pressed against her ribs, as if someone had reached inside her and grabbed her lungs with their bare hands, squeezing just enough to keep her from fully breathing, not squeezing enough for her to pass out. 

At first, she thought she was dying. It seems a dumb thought now, but then again, her mind two years ago wasn’t really there. She thought she was dying. That something inside of her had broken beyond repair, and that her death would come soon enough. 

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of suffering through it, it faded. Not completely. Not in the way she needed it to. But enough for her to function. Enough for her to pretend.

But it always came back.

The worst part? There was no warning and it had taken her some time to understand the concept of triggers . She could be sitting in her car, staring at the ocean, thinking of absolutely nothing, and suddenly, she would feel it creeping up again, dragging her down, replacing any sense of calmness with unbearable anxiety. It was exhausting. And it was also humiliating. She was Kiara Carrera. 

She wasn’t supposed to be feel like this.

She wasn’t supposed to be this broken.

Not even then, not even when her entire body begged her to fall apart, did she allow herself to name the feeling sitting heavy on her chest. She convinced herself it was just grief. Grief that twisted and crushed and pulled her under, but still, just grief. A natural response to losing the love of her life and then, not long after, draining the life out of his biological father.

She had been busy, after all. Killing a man. Taking his money. Selling a crown.

Grieving had to wait.

Breathing had to wait.

Then Rafe and her touched down in North Carolina, and it didn’t stop.

She still couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to sleep, and sometimes, even in her dreams, she felt like she was drowning. She would wake up gasping, clutching at her chest like she could physically pull the panic out of her body.

It just kept coming, wave after wave, and then of course, came the shrinks, too willing to give her an explanation, too willing to give it a name that wasn’t JJ’s, a reason that wasn’t simply grief. 

“What you’re experiencing—the lack of air, the desperation, the dizziness—is a prolonged panic attack. Your mind is stuck in a state of heightened alert. It’s common for people with PTSD. The fight-or-flight response doesn’t always shut off when the immediate danger is gone. Some people feel it for hours. Some for days. Some for weeks.”

For more than a year, in her case. The crushing weight, the panic that stretched across days, the sheer exhaustion. It tangled itself up with everything else—the depression, the not-drug addiction, the intrusive thoughts and the death wishes.

And then, slowly,eventually, it started to fade.

Turns out getting help actually helped. 

She started feeling the ground under her feet again. Started waking up and not immediately suffocating. The panic attacks didn’t disappear, but they got easier. She could come back from them.

Until three days ago.

Because JJ Maybank is alive.

Because JJ Maybank is alive and living under her best friends’ roof.

JJ Maybank is alive and he hates her. 

After the fight with her mom—if it could even be called a fight, since she ran away as usual—Kiara headed to Rixon’s Cove. She stayed there long after the sun had set, long after the waves had swallowed the last light of day, long after the cold had settled deep into her bones. The ocean roared its disapproval, but she stayed rooted to the sand, staring out at the black water.

She thought about getting a hotel room for the night. She had enough money for it, enough anger to justify it. But even in her rage, she figured that wasn’t fair to her friends. She knew she’d have to face them eventually and she knew that if she didn’t come back home, they would freak out. 

So she came home.

The home she shares with Rafe.

She told herself she wasn’t sneaking in. That she was just being quiet . That she was tired. That there was nothing wrong with slipping through the door, cracking it open just enough to slip inside. If Rafe was sleeping, maybe she could make it to the guest room unnoticed.

But he wasn’t sleeping.

He was waiting.

Sprawled on the couch, half-slumped but unmistakably alert, his gaze fixed on the door because he knew she would come back. His posture was deceptively casual, but his expression screamed we need to talk .

She didn’t want to talk.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone but the person who probably hated her the most right now. 

For a split second, she considered making a run for the guest room. But Rafe was on his feet before she could even move, blocking her path.

— I know you’re angry —

— Go to hell, Rafe —

And for a moment—just a moment—something flickered in his eyes. Like she had just told him something he already knew. Like she had just stated the obvious.

Like he was telling her I’m already there .

She doesn’t know why that makes her stomach twist. She doesn’t know why it almost makes her feel bad.

She doesn’t stop, though. She doesn’t let him say anything else. She shuts herself in the guest room before he can try.

—

She stays in the guest room until Tuesday morning.

She doesn’t step out except to go to the bathroom. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t think beyond the bare minimum required to exist. She keeps her eyes shut against the morning light, buries herself under the covers, sinks into the weight of her own exhaustion.

It’s easier that way. Easier to pretend she’s still somewhere else. Somewhere in Portugal or Morocco, where the next two years haven’t happened already. Somewhere where the past is still intact, where things haven’t fallen apart, where she can believe for just a little longer that JJ never died and hence never had to come back. To a time when they were just them, Kie and JJ, joined at the hip, to a time when she didn’t feel like…

No. She stops the thought before it can form, pressing her knuckles against her eyelids, trying to block out the unhappy thoughts..

Tuesday morning comes, and she realizes what she’s doing.

She remembers the way her mom looked at her when she picked her up from the middle of the road. The way her voice cracked, the way her eyes pleaded, Don’t do this to us again.

She’s doing it again.

Because her bed is comfortable. Because the outside world is ruthless. Because it’s easier to mourn in here, in the safety of four walls and silence, than to step outside and face the reality she can’t escape.

She has stopped mourning the JJ who died.

She has started mourning the JJ who wants nothing to do with her.

The thought of him—alive, out there, existing in the same country, same state, same island—makes her sick to her core. Because if she steps outside, if she looks for him, she might find him. And if she finds him, he will look at her like he did near the marsh.

You disgust me ! 

And it will hurt all over again.

She wants to stay in.

She wants to disappear into the blankets, sink into the mattress, let the world forget about her as easily as JJ probably has.

She has not felt hungry in days.

She wonders if that’s a good thing.

But she knows herself this time. She knows sad Kiara more than anything else.

She knows what she’s doing.

So Tuesday morning, she wakes up early, drags herself out of bed before her body can protest, goes downstairs, and forces down a protein bar. It sticks to the roof of her mouth, dry and tasteless, but she swallows it anyway. She doesn’t let herself think too much—thinking is the enemy. Overthinking is a death sentence. Instead, she moves on autopilot, takes a shower (she desperately needs one), gets ready, grabs her keys, and gets in her car before hesitation can change her mind.

She heads to Poguelandia because work is structure. Work is order. Work is a distraction. And she needs distractions more than she needs anything else. If she’s working, she’s not spiraling. If she’s working, she’s not thinking about things that make her stomach twist and her chest ache. If she’s working, she has purpose, however small, however fleeting. She focuses on what she missed Monday, runs through a mental checklist. Did Pope remember the Tuesday providers like to be paid in cash? Has everything been restocked? Is there a mess from the night before that needs cleaning?

She pulls up and scans the lot. No sign of her friends. Good. This should be easy if they’re not around. 

Her optimism crumbles the moment she steps inside and sees Cleo.

Well, fuck.

Cleo doesn’t rush to her, doesn’t throw her arms around her like Sarah would. She doesn’t look hurt, or confused, or desperate for an explanation like John B always does when she pulls away. She doesn’t try to fix her, doesn’t suggest therapy, doesn’t look like she’s seconds from dragging her back to a shrink’s office the way Pope would.

She just looks at her. Really looks at her.

Cleo is a Pogue through and through, a survivor, someone who knows what it feels to feel truly hopeless. She sees Kiara for what she is, for what she’s doing, and she doesn’t call her out on it. She just smiles, easy and knowing, a silent reassurance. Like she’s telling Kiara, I know you wouldn’t backtrack.

Kiara doesn’t know if that’s true. But she appreciates the confidence in her anyway.

So she gets to working.

She throws herself into every task, every mindless, repetitive motion. She organizes supplies. She counts the register. She triple-checks invoices that don’t need checking. Cleo orbits around her, tries once or twice to start a conversation, but Kiara makes herself scarce fast enough that Cleo eventually gets the hint. She doesn’t push. She lets her have this.

By 2 p.m., Kiara has done everything that needs to be done. Every surface wiped down, every order accounted for, every obligation fulfilled. She hasn’t stopped once. Not for water, not for the bathroom, not to breathe. And it feels good .

She’s not a workaholic, of course. But she gets it now. The appeal of it. The way it drowns out the noise, the way it fills the empty spaces, the way it makes her feel like something other than a shell of herself. Being productive? Amazing. Keeping her hands moving so her mind can’t wander? Great. Feeling, for even a moment, like she’s not completely useless and worthless?

Fucking awesome.

She leaves right before 3 p.m., which is when Pope and John B usually get to Poguelandia. She tells herself she’s in the clear, tells herself she’s done the hard part—getting through the day, keeping her head down, avoiding the questions she has no interest in answering. The relief is almost tangible as she pushes open the door, as she makes her way across the parking lot, her keys already in her hand, her mind already on the drive home.

Then Cleo rushes after her. 

— Kie, wait up —

Kiara stops dead in her tracks. A spike of irritation flares up, because of course she couldn’t just walk away. Of course Cleo wouldn’t just let her go without talking.

Cleo doesn’t say anything right away. She just looks at her, arms crossed over her chest, like she’s giving Kiara a chance to say something first. Like she’s waiting to see if Kiara will say something first or run.

She doesn’t do either thing, but she wants to.

Cleo exhales, tilting her head just slightly. — I know you’re angry, I know you don’t wanna speak with the Pogues, but … —

— That’s right, I don’t, so whatever they told you to say, save it. I’m not interested. —

— For once in your life, Kie, please, just listen —

Kie sighs dramatically, but she nods, allowing Cleo to go on.

— They didn’t tell me to talk to you — Cleo continues, her voice measured, steady. — To be honest, they thought you wouldn’t show your face till next week. I knew you’d be here, though.— 

— All of ‘em… Pope, John B, Sarah… Rude Boy…—  Cleo’s eyes her as to check for a reaction, but Kiara puts on her best stoic face. — They’re all worried ‘bout you.— 

Kiara scoffs, shaking her head. — Please. You expect me to believe JJ is worried about me? I don’t need you to lie to me, Cleo.— 

Cleo’s expression doesn’t waver. — C’mon, Kie. I know you ain’t dumb. You more than anyone know Rude Boy is all talk. He could never not worry about you.— 

Quickly, Kiara is back in that moment. JJ’s voice echoing in her head, the way he had looked at her, the things he had said. 

— He said I was disgusting.—  

— Once, he called you a Kook. And that was worse, and you know he was lying. You ain’t a Kook, are you?— 

Kiara stares at the asphalt, suddenly feeling like a little girl away, being scolded by her mother over arguing back, or hanging out with those boys, or getting her nice, expensive clothes dirty while playing in the playground. She feels stupid, and worse, she feels so fucking weak.  

— And before you keep arguing like you love to do, just…—  Cleo exhales, softer this time. — Just listen, yeah? Your friends are worried. The princess won’t stop crying. And I love you, Kie. You know I do. But you owe it to them. Cuz you know why they worry.— 

She knows, of course.

She knows exactly why they worry. She knows exactly what they’re afraid of. And she has hated herself for making them worry for over two years now.

But holding grudges has always been easier.

— I’m sorry, Cleo,—  she mutters. — But I can’t have this conversation right now.— 

Cleo studies her for a long moment, and Kiara wonders what people see when they look at her.

But Cleo just nods, like she was expecting that answer all along. She steps back, finally letting Kiara walk towards her car. But before Kiara can climb in, Cleo speaks again.

— Don’t disappear, Kie. Please. I’m not only asking for them. I fucking love you, girl, and I don’t want you to… I want you to be okay — 

Kiara doesn’t answer. She starts the car and drives away.

The afternoon and evening eat her whole. The sun shifts, the sky bruises purple, and the outline of the house she shared with Rafe brights from the distance. She doesn’t want to go inside. She wants to turn back, to get in her car and drive until the gas runs out, until she’s somewhere that doesn’t make her feel like this. But she has nowhere to go. The Chateau is out of the question, her parents’ house is an enemy zone right now, and Pope and Cleo’s place isn’t an option anymore. She has burned every bridge and cut every rope.

Her loneliness is self-inflicted.

Only Rafe is here.

Isn’t that ironic?

She steps inside, the door clicking shut behind her. The air is thick from the second she steps in. Rafe is already there, standing in the living room. He’s been waiting, and he doesn’t look happy at all.

— You lock yourself in the guestroom during four fucking days and when I wake up today, you are gone. For Christ’s sake, can we talk, Kiara? Can we fucking talk now? —  

She drops her bag on the counter, anger settling deep as she moves toward the stairs, not even sparing him a glance. — We have nothing to talk about —

— Fuck! —  He cuts her off, his hands flying to his hair in frustration. — You have been avoiding me for days. I have given you space even though you can’t be trusted when you are left alone.— 

Kiara freezes on the third step, nails digging into the banister as she turns back to glare at him. — Are you fucking for real, dude? I can’t be trusted? Are you even hearing yourself?—  Her voice rises, sharp as glass. — I can do whatever I want. You don’t fucking own me.— 

— Tell me, Kie. What happened the last time we gave you space? Want me to tell you?— 

— Fuck you, Rafe.— 

— Fuck you, Kie.—  His voice is lower now, but no less angry. — So what? I didn’t tell you he was back for a few days. You hate me for that? Cuz I kept a secret I was told to keep?— 

— Yes! You kept a secret from me. We live together. This whole thing——  she gestures between them, to the house, to everything — was your idea. ‘Just give me a chance, I’ll prove to you I’m on your side,’ remember? You made me trust you, and then you kept him away from me.— 

— Of course I did!—  His control snaps, his face starting to turn bright red. — You were ready to kill yourself for that dude.— 

Kiara recoils at the words. It’s a low blow, even for Rafe, so she goes even lower.  — Oh, please, don’t tell me you were so worried. I know now why you told me you love me.— 

Rafe looks almost hurt.. — After all this, you seriously doubt I love you?— 

— So it was just a coincidence?—  Her laugh is hollow. — You finding out he was alive and then telling me you love me? I’m not fucking stupid, Rafe.— 

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. — It seems you are. Did it ever occur to you that I was afraid? That… Fuck…—  He paces for a second, raking a hand through his hair. — Yes, Kiara, I did tell you when I found out because of him. Yes, I was jealous. Don’t you remember? In Lisbon? You looked me dead in the eye and said if you could, you would trade my life for his.— 

The memory hits like a slap. If I could trade you for him, I would.

A stupid argument it’s all it takes for them to go back to Portugal. To their months there. To the fights and the hatred so palpable from her side.

It’s all it takes for their relationship to turn toxic again.

— I was in a fucked-up state of mind, and you know it.— 

— But you fucking meant every word.— 

— It was two years ago! Why the fuck do you care?— 

— Because I do fucking love you! Fucked-up state of mind or not, that shit hurt, Kie.— 

— You tried to kill me, Rafe. You tried to kill your own sister. Do you really want to do this again? Want to pretend you were the good guy all along?— 

His entire body goes rigid. 

She knows she has gone too far, but she can’t stop herself. It’s like she wants to push him away. To push everyone away.

— Don’t fucking bring that up.—  He sounds so fucking sad . — You know how much I regret… — 

— Then don’t bring up shit I did or said during the worst year of my life.—  She steps back, putting space between them. — It doesn’t matter because you fucking hid him away now. This isn’t some dumb secret you kept. You know how much I was hurting. You were there! What was your plan? Keep him hidden forever so I’d never find out?— 

Rafe doesn’t answer.

He just looks away.

Kiara scoffs, shaking her head as she turns toward the stairs again. — Whatever, dude. Just leave me alone.— 

Rafe doesn’t stop her this time. Doesn’t say another word. She storms up the stairs, her heart pounding so hard it feels it may explode. By the time she reaches the guest room, slamming the door behind her, her hands are shaking. She presses her palms against the dresser, head dropping between her shoulders as she exhales shakily.

The confrontation still rings in her ears.

She wants to cry. She actually wants to cry, but she can’t, which may be worse than crying itself.

And maybe it’s the masochist side of her, but she unlocks her phone for the first time since that day, watching as the screen nearly explodes with missed calls and unread messages. More than a hundred. Her stomach churns as she scrolls through the names—her mom, Sarah, John B, Pope, even her dad. It’s overwhelming, but she doesn’t stop until she reaches Sarah’s chat.

She hesitates only a second before opening it.

Because yeah.

She likes the pain.

Cleo says you were in Poguelandia. can you come home? please kie

Ik you hate me but maybe if I explain you will understand. I just want to explain. I love you and just wanted to do what I thought was better.

Why cant you at least answer? You know I worry. Please dont do this to me.

Kie please.

Im sorry.

She reads John B’s last text messages too.

Ill get him to talk to you. Hes here and hes not going anywhere. Please just come. Cleo told us you went to Poguelandia. Why cant you come here? Ill get him to talk to you.

You know he didnt mean any of it. Dont be dumb Kie.

You can be mad at me all you want but please at least text Sarah back? She wanted to tell you. It was all my idea. Its not fair you are doing this to her.

She reads them over and over, until she finally manages to shed a few tears.

//

Wednesday is worse. Worse because the universe seems intent on forcing her to feel every ounce of her isolation by forcing her to isolate herself.

She pulls over at Poguelandia and sees everyone’s cars parked outside. Pope’s. John B’s. Even Sarah’s.

Of course they’re here. She should’ve known they’d do this. It is their thing. 

They probably have a group chat without her named Kie’s intervention . 

She grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles go white. She can imagine them inside the restaurant. It feels weird knowing they are just some feet away. 

She wants to see them. She can’t function without her friends. But she’s not gonna give them the satisfaction of fixing her this time. 

Her heart is hammering when she puts the car in reverse. She doesn't even look back before she pulls away from the Chateau, tires kicking up dust. 

They don’t get to corner her. 

She drives without thinking, without knowing where she’s going until she sees the familiar stretch of sand. 

Rixon’s Cove. 

She didn’t bring a board, but it doesn’t matter. She walks until the waves are almost touching her toes, then sinks down onto the damp sand, pulling her knees to her chest. The sky is wide open, endless, mocking. The ocean is moving, restless, never stopping.

She stares at the horizon, wondering where JJ is now. If he’s watching the same sky, if the wind feels different in the Chateau. Wondering if he’s thinking of her.

Of course he isn’t.

She tells herself that, over and over, like a mantra, like if she says it enough times, she will have to accept it and it will stop hurting. 

But it doesn’t stop hurting. It never does. His loss never stopped hurting, even she allowed herself to feel happy. This won’t ever stop hurting.

Almost an hour passes. Somewhere not far from her, she hears a group of girls walking by. They are around her age, maybe a little younger. She recognizes some. They are from this side of the island, but they seem so careless and happy. She figures that’s the way girls in their early 20s should seem. Happy. Free. Definitely not so fucking sad. 

They are talking just loud enough that she can hear every word, whether she wants to or not.

— I’m not lying, Penelope! He’s back. My dad saw him at the police station with the sheriff—

Kiara’s entire body locks up. Her breath hitches. They could be talking about anyone, about any he , but something in her instantly knows they are talking about him . Her mind races as she wonders what the hell JJ was doing at the police station, why was he with Shoupe? Shoupe has been on their side since Portugal, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling worried. She wonders if she will need to go to the station herself and talk with Shoupe again.

The first times were not fun, but she did it for JJ. And she would do it again. 

She would do anything for JJ.

— But what was he doing there, Ash? I thought he had moved to Alaska. Wasn’t that what that group told people? He had left to Alaska and never looked back —

Alaska. That was the lie . JJ had gone to Alaska. 

JJ wasn’t buried in Morocco. JJ was living his best life in Alaska. 

— Well, obviously, he came back. My dad said he saw him talking with Shoupe. Do you think he knows Kiara Carrera is now living with Rafe Cameron? —

Kiara immediately remembers why she hates gossip. 

— I mean, I am guessing he knows. They were always together. Like, it was some codependent shit —

— Why do you think they broke up? —

— I don’t know… Probably cheated on her. He was always such a man-whore —

She looks down at her hands. She remembers all the rumors, the things people used to say about JJ, how people always assumed the worst. Like they could ever know him the way she did.

— Yeah, I never believed he was in love with her —

The girls’ voices dull as they walk further away, but Kiara has completely tuned out. The ocean makes her company, but she’s not seeing it anymore. She’s seeing JJ. Laughing at something stupid she said. Grinning at her like she was the best thing in the world. Holding her like she was something precious. Telling her I love you as they lied away after making love. 

Two years ago, she would have gone to him. She would have told him about the girls’ conservation, and he would have reassured her. Showed her there were no limits to his love. Kiara never doubted him, fucking never, but JJ would still remind her how much she meant to him. 

She can’t go to him this time. Would he even answer the door? Would he even look at her?

You disgust me. 

She misses him. 

She misses him so much. 

He sees her again on a Wednesday.

It’s been weeks since he came back, and he doesn’t know why he keeps going to Rixon’s Cove. Maybe it’s muscle memory, his body gravitating toward something familiar, something that feels like his own when everything else in his life has unraveled into something unrecognizable. He tells himself it’s because the ocean has always been his home, because the waves are the only thing that have ever made sense to him. But deep down, he knows better.

It’s because of her.

Rixon’s Cove felt the most like home with her by his side. Only with her.

And when he spots her, sitting at the shoreline with her arms wrapped around her knees, he feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. He doesn’t need to see her face to know it’s Kiara. He knows every inch of her by heart. The curve of her shoulders, the way she tilts her head slightly, the way the wind plays with the strands of her hair. 

It’s her. The universe, or God, or whoever, has always liked to play jokes on him. And what a bigger joke than him going to the beach to run away and seeing Kiara there?

He wants to run to her. He wants to call her name, wants her to turn around, wants to see her eyes—the same eyes that had looked so wounded days ago. He wants to drop to his knees in front of her, grab her hands, say everything he should have said. He wants to tell her he’s sorry. That he loves her. That every time he has made her cry he has felt like dying, and that if she forgives him, he will never hurt her again. 

But then he remembers Rafe.

And just like that, his legs are frozen in place, dread replacing his desire to run to Kiara. His mind floods with every image he has tried so hard to ignore—her laughing with Rafe, her looking at him the way she used to look at JJ, her hand in his. It burns. God, it fucking burns.

Kiara never notices him. 

She just keeps staring at the ocean, lost in thought, oblivious to the fact that he’s standing right here, watching her, falling apart over and over again in the span of a few seconds. And maybe that’s for the best. Because if she did see him, if she turned around and looked at him, he’s not sure what he would do. 

JJ forces himself to take a step back. Then another. And another.

And then he runs.

Because he’s a coward. Because he’s afraid. Because he knows no matter how far he goes, no matter how long he runs, it’ll never be far enough to escape her.

Because Kiara Carrera will always, always be in his bones.

So he runs, and he runs, and he runs, even though he knows it’s already too late.

//

Two days before seeing Kiara again, JJ loses his mind. 

At first, the day he first saw Kiara and found out she was dating Rafe, the anger had been overwhelming—consuming, scorching through him like wildfire. It was easier to be angry. Anger was something he knew, something familiar. But it had nowhere to go.

It took him a few hours to immediately feel like the biggest piece of shit on Earth.

And regret—regret was a different kind of pain.

He wishes he could take it all back. He wishes he could rewind time and shake some sense into himself, tell himself not to be so goddamn, stupid.

But it is too late for that now.

He can’t sit still. The Chateau suffocates him. He loves John B and Sarah to death, but he’s still a little angry, and more than anything, he’s ashamed. He doesn’t exactly know why, but truth be told, he’s not without reasons. 

JJ Maybank does as JJ Maybank knows, and JJ only knows how to run away. 

Monday evening, he finds Sarah and John B sitting in the living room. Sarah was clutching her phone like it was a lifeline, staring at the screen like she could will it to light up. She has been doing the same thing for days. Waiting for Kiara to call her.

Kiara hasn’t.

John B looks worried, and JJ wonders if he has looked not-worried since they were reunited. Worried for Sarah, worried for him, worried for Kiara, worried for everyone. 

JJ said nothing, but last night, he heard John B crying. 

Without thinking, he sits down beside them. Sarah blinks; she’s surprised he has voluntarily joined them. It’s shocking enough for her to stop staring at her phone. 

John B looks remotely happy for the first time in four days.

But his face immediately falls and crumbles when JJ speaks. 

— I want to move out.— 

— JJ…— Sarah begins to say, cautious, but almost as hurt as John B.

— I can’t live here forever, you know. Can I… I don’t know. Can you help me find a place? I guess I’ll need a job first… — 

— JJ… — 

— And who the fuck is gonna hire me? Me getting hired is almost impossible—  He let out a humorless laugh. — Not exactly a solid résumé, you know? Two year gap and all. But whatever, it’s fine, I’ll figure it out — 

— JJ, stop.— Sarah seems pissed now, her voice sharp enough to make him pause.

— You don’t have to find a job, JJ—  she said. — You can work with John B. You would be doing something you enjoy and... — 

— You mean for Rafe Cameron?—  JJ scoffs.

— We’re equal partners,—  John B interjects for the first time since JJ began talking. He’s not looking at him, though. He’s staring at his hands and for a second, JJ thinks he sees tears in John B’s eyes  — Everything we own is split between us.— 

— Hard pass.— 

Sarah sighs. She knows JJ. She knows he won’t accept if it means working anywhere near Rafe. — And you have Poguelandia, too. You can work with us— 

— And work with… work for Kiara? Yeah, no thanks.— 

— Nobody works for anyone,—  Sarah inhales and rolls her eyes, annoyed at having to repeat herself. — We all own it together .— 

— Right. And I missed two years of developments, so maybe you guys forgot, but I wasn’t exactly included in that deal.— 

— JJ…— 

— You got that loan. I got nothing.—  His voice waves, just slightly. He hates it — I don’t have a house, or shares in a business, or fucking anything. I’m a broke 21 year old with no work experience — 

— JJ, you’re not broke.— 

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. — Yeah? Well, I sure as hell ain’t rich.— 

Sarah hesitates. She seems to be wondering if she should say something, and when she looks over to John B for reassurance, he looks as doubtful as her.  

But she speaks anyway. 

— You kind of are.— 

JJ thinks they have all lost the plot. 

Of course he isn't rich. He 's JJ Maybank. Maybanks aren’t rich. 

But he’s never been a Maybank, has he?

— The hell are you talking about?— 

She exchanges another look with John B. 

— We didn’t tell you because we wanted Kie to explain. She would have wanted to tell you herself, so please don’t get mad. It’s all because of her, anyway. But JJ… you’re not poor. You haven’t been for a long time.— 

— What are you even saying?— 

Sarah takes a slow breath. — Kie sold the Crown. In Portugal. It was worth way more than we thought. And we all split the money.— 

JJ lets out a short, bitter laugh. — Right. And you split it with my ghost?— 

— No, JJ.—  Sarah’s voice softens. She looks sorry, but also content. It confuses JJ. — We split it with you . You were never legally dead.— 

What the actual fuck?

— What do you mean, Sarah?— 

— We didn’t know what to do. We thought about telling Shoupe the truth, the whole truth, hoping he’d go easy on Pope, but then Kie… Kie called Shoupe.— 

— She didn’t tell us what she was going to do. She was in Portugal and barely speaking to us, but she called him. And after that… everything changed. Pope was in prison. When we first came back, they detained him. But then, Kie calls Shoupe and suddenly, Shoupe lets Pope go. We didn’t understand why until later.— 

Sarah exhales before continuing. 

— She convinced Shoupe of everything. That Groff was your dad. That you were a Genrette. They met with attorneys. Her, Shoupe… and Rafe.— 

JJ can’t help but roll his eyes at the mention of Rafe Cameron.

Sarah hurries to explain. — I know you don’t want to hear that. But Rafe helped her. They proved your identity, don’t ask me how, cuz I don’t know. They couldn’t say you were dead, because then the bank would’ve kept everything, so they said you went to fucking Alaska.— 

It’s a lot of process in a few seconds. He doesn’t know how to feel. The fact that he has money, money Rafe Cameron helped him get. The fact that Kiara… Kiara fixed everything he had destroyed. She fixed his mess, and she did more. 

And he had told her she disgusted him. 

— What do you mean, everything?— He finally asks. What does Sarah mean with the bank keeping everything ?

— Groff’s money. Your grandfather’s inheritance… Goat Island.— 

— So you’re saying…— 

— You’re worth millions, JJ. I don’t know the exact amount,—  Sarah confesses. — But Goat Island is yours . It’s been yours for almost two years.— 

Holy fucking shit. 

— But… but… then that’s how you bought all this? Poguelandia, this house… — 

Sarah shakes her head. — No. That was Crown money. And some Cameron money.— 

You’re worth millions, JJ.

— How much did you get for the Crown?— 

— Five million.— 

—What the fuck!?— 

— Yeah, that was our exact reaction as well. Apparently Groff wasn’t the only one behind. Some Chinese billionaire owns it now.— 

Five million dollars. 

They had gotten five million dollars.

JJ feels like throwing up.

— And Goat Island?— 

— It’s still there, obviously . Kiara got offers for it . But she never sold it. Now it’s up to you.— 

The next morning, he finds Sarah in her and John B’s room, baby Jackson sleeping beside her.

— Can we talk?—  he asks hoarsely. 

Sarah hesitates. She casts a glance over her shoulder into the dim bedroom, and checks that Jackson is actually sleeping. Then she steps out, carefully closing the door behind her. 

JJ stands in the hallway, and he can’t help but feel nervous. He has had a weird day. Finding out yesterday about him, JJ Mayback/Groff/Genrette being the most loaded person he knows, meeting with Shoupe today to let him know he was back, having to meet with his lawyer –he, JJ, had a fancy lawyer– and discuss how many millions he’s worth. It’s been weird, and now he has to talk to Sarah about feelings and stuff.  

— What’s up? — Her voice is careful and neutral. 

JJ drags a hand down his face, exhales sharply. He hesitates before finally meeting her gaze.

— Can you please tell Kie I want to see her? — A pause. He shakes his head. — No, don’t tell her that. Tell her I want to talk. —

Sarah shifts her weight from foot to foot, crossing her arms. Suspicion flickers behind the exhaustion in her eyes.

— Why? — 

JJ can’t blame her for doubting him. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He looks away for a second, then back at her, something like shame flickering in his expression.

— I’m not gonna… I regret what I said. I really fucking regret what I said to her… I feel like shit, and I… I just want to apologize. I promise I won’t mess up. Just… tell her I want to apologize. —

His voice cracks at the end, and Sarah instantly softens her face. She should be angry. Because JJ doesn’t know, but she’s been as worried about him as she has been worried about Kiara. 

Because JJ doesn’t know, but Sarah blames herself as much as JJ blames himself.

And then, before she can stop it, the tears come.

A broken sob rips from her throat. She presses her hands against her face, as if she can hold it in, but her shoulders shake violently. The weight of everything crushes her all at once.

JJ’s eyes widen. He definitely wasn’t expecting that reaction. He brings her closer with his hand and hugs her before she can push him away. 

— Sarah, what’s wrong? —

She shakes her head, gasping for breath, but nothing comes.

— Kie… Kie hasn’t been answering my messages. — Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it sounds distraught. — It’s been five days, JJ. Five days. She won’t answer. Cleo saw her at Poguelandia today, but she said she doesn’t want to talk, and I… —

JJ feels something inside him crack.He’s never been good at comforting others, but seeing his friends cry has always made him weak. 

— Sarah, it’s okay. Kiara is okay — Is she, though?

— What if she hates me? —

— Kie could never hate you. —

Sarah wipes at her eyes furiously, sniffling.

— She did. She hated me after freshman year. — Her voice is bitter, but at herself, self-loathing and sad. — I’m not one of you guys… I’m not a real Pogue. —

— You are a real Pogue, Sarah. Freshman year was a long time ago. — 

His voice is firm, because he really does mean it. Sarah couldn’t be more of a Pogue. He has never said it, because he’s JJ and JJ is not good at communicating, but he has always thought Sarah was more a Pogue than him. He didn’t have another option. He was born a Pogue (not actually) but sometimes he wished he could be a Kook and have a normal Kook life. Sarah had it all, she was the princess of all Kooks, and she gave it all up in an instant. 

His words seem to be enough for now, because Sarah manages to compose herself. 

— I just wish I could help you, JJ. I know she would love to see you. If she decides to answer me back, I will tell her, okay? She will be so happy —

///

The next day is when he sees her. He goes to Rixon’s Cove, and he sees her. He sees her and he wants to go to her, but suddenly it all becomes too real. Yes, he wanted to speak to her, but now he’s here, and it is too soon. Too fucking soon.

He runs away. 

But the next day, he comes back.

This time, he arrives earlier. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe it’s not. He tells himself it’s not about her. It’s just about clearing his head, about finding a quiet place to think. But then he sees her again. This time, she’s in the water.

JJ stops in his tracks, watching as Kiara cuts through the waves, her movements smooth and effortless. Out there, she looks free. Just like the Kiara she remembers. He wants to believe that means she’s okay. That despite him messing up, she’s okay. She’s okay.

Then she steps out of the water, and the illusion shatters.

She looks too thin. He saw her mere days ago, but she looks like she lost two pounds in those days, and she looks far too tired. When she finally spots him standing there, her entire body stiffens. She blinks, probably telling herself he’s not real. Or maybe she’s waiting for him to mess up again. To be cruel again. 

So he tries to play it cool. Let her know that they are cool. 

— Nice surf today.

His voice doesn’t come out like he wants. Instead of sounding cool, he sounds nervous, just like he actually feels. Kiara doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at him, eyes searching. And for a second, he thinks she’s going to turn and walk away. That she’s going to leave him standing there just like he did to her yesterday, even if she didn’t notice.

But she doesn’t.

She steps forward and sits down in the sand, leaving just enough space between them that it feels like any other day surfing at Rixons. JJ hesitates for half a second before lowering himself beside her.

Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. JJ doesn’t know what to say, and Kiara looks like she doesn’t have the strength to try. He counts the seconds in his head. One. Two. Three. Four. 

At five, Kiara breaks.

It starts with a single tremor in her shoulders. Suddenly, she’s gasping, her hands clutching at her knees, her body folding in on itself. Tears spill down her face, fast and endless, and she’s not even trying to stop them.

JJ feels something inside him snap and break. Before he can think, before he can stop himself, he reaches for her. He can’t not reach out to her. Maybe they fought, maybe it’s been two years, but JJ Maybank can’t simply watch as Kiara Carrera breaks apart. He can’t. 

He needs to hold her. It’s a necessity. Like breathing. Being there for her is exactly like breathing to him.  

She doesn’t flinch when his fingers brush against her arm. She doesn’t pull away when he shifts closer. So he does what he’s always done—he pulls her in gently.. Kiara doesn’t resist. She collapses against him, gripping his shirt with trembling hands, burying her face into his chest. Her sobs are the most heartbreaking thing he has ever heard.

JJ tightens his hold, resting his chin on top of her head, letting her cry. Letting her get it all out. He rubs slow, soothing circles on her back, whispering.

— It’s okay. I got you. —

And maybe it’s selfish, but he doesn’t want to let go. He’s holding her, and she’s holding him back, and it just feels right . 

Kiara’s breath hitches, and then she chokes out,

— I’m so sorry —

JJ shakes his head immediately, tightening his arms around her.

— You have nothing to apologize for, Kie. Nothing. I was the idiot. You have never done anything wrong. —

She doesn’t respond, just presses herself closer, and JJ closes his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. He doesn’t think before he speaks next, doesn’t filter his words or consider they aren’t the most appropriate.

— I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Kie.— 

Her breath catches, and her gaze snaps back to his. There’s something in her expression that makes his throat tighten, something desperate.

— Jage… JJ… I’m sorry. My thing with Rafe… —- 

JJ flinches. The name is like a fist to his gut, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way it affects him. He shakes his head quickly, voice quiet but firm.

— Don’t.— 

She closes her mouth immediately, pressing her lips together, reading the way his whole body tenses. He doesn’t want to hurt her ever again, but he would rather get hit by a car than hear Kiara talk about Rafe right now. 

— I’m sorry — She apologizes again.

— It’s okay, Kie. I’m not… I’m not angry. I’m sorry too — He uses his most gentle voice, the one he would only use with her — Could you please call Sarah, tho? —

— What? —

— Call Sarah. Or better, go to the Chateau and see her. She’s been crying about you ignoring her. It’s getting desperate —

Kiara scoffs and rolls her eyes, fingers digging into the sand beneath them. 

— Three weeks, Jage. They lied to me for three weeks… —

— Nah—  he cuts in, shaking his head. — I was angry too and I forgave them. I know you’re angry, but talk to her — 

JJ exhales, his voice gentler again. — I know. I know they should’ve told you. I get it, Kie. But she’s losing her mind thinking you hate her.— 

— Is she dumb?—  Kiara mutters, shaking her head. — I could never hate her. She’s one of my best friends. — 

JJ lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. — That’s what I said!— 

Kiara exhales, rolling her eyes again, but there’s a softness in the way she does it. JJ watches her, amused, because damn she’s only gotten more beautiful, then lets himself fall fully onto the sand, staring up at the sky, arms resting behind his head.

— I swear to God, if I have to hear Sarah cry to John B about you one more time, I’m gonna lose it. I’m already annoyed as hell.— 

Kiara lets out a breath of laughter, tilting her head to look at him. — Fine. Okay. I’ll talk to her. — 

JJ nods, satisfied. He doesn’t say anything else, just listens to the sound of the waves. Kiara stays sitting, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks.

In two years, JJ has never felt more happy.

Chapter Text

Kiara goes to see Sarah the next day.

She tells herself to wait a little longer—maybe a couple more days, maybe until the weekend, maybe forever—but eventually, she realizes there’s really no reason to wait.

She wants to be angry. Desperately. She wants to tell herself she has every right to hold onto that anger, to let it prolong the hurt she knows both the Pogues—but especially Sarah and John B—and she are feeling. But lately (a year ago, to be exact), she has stopped finding any strength in being prideful, in being the difficult girl she once was, especially when being prideful means creating a distance between her and the people she loves the most.

Past Kiara was too prideful; it’s one of the things she doesn’t miss about the girl she was before Morocco. Past Kiara relished nothing more than having the final say. At being proven right. Past Kiara loved winning arguments. She held grudges against almost everyone (except JJ, of course) and didn’t allow herself to feel remorseful about it. 

Present Kiara just misses her friends.

And because she misses her friends, she goes to see Sarah first thing in the morning, standing on the porch of the Chateau, heart in her throat, fingers clenching the sleeve of her oversized hoodie like it might offer some comfort. It’s early—only 9 a.m.—and the sun has been slowly rising, casting a soft gold glow over the little-yet-vast house that is the Chateau. 

She’s nervous, even though deep down, she recognizes that there’s no reason to be anxious. It’s just Sarah and John B.

She knocks just once before Sarah Cameron-Routledge opens the door, eyes showing tiredness and dark circles. She’s wearing one of John B’s oversized T-shirts, her blonde hair pulled into a loose braid that suggests she just woke up.

When they come face-to-face, Sarah just stares . 

She blinks once.

Twice.

Three times.

Her lips part like she’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. Kiara can see her brain working behind her eyes, trying to process the fact that Kiara Carrera swallowed her pride and came here.

So Kiara speaks instead.

—Hi,— she says, soft and hesitant, offering a shy smile. — Can I come in? —

Sarah blinks once more. Then, slowly, cautiously, she nods, and she moves aside so Kiara can step inside.

—Where’s my godson? — she asks, speaking too casually for Sarah’s taste. 

— Sleeping. He stayed up later than usual last night—Sarah replies, her tone alert and flat, like she’s forcing herself to stay neutral. But her arms are crossed over her chest, and she looks at Kiara like she doesn’t know if she should prepare for an argument or enter overprotective mode.

— Is John B here? —

— Nope, he just left…actually. He and JJ left to meet JJ’s attorneys. —

The mention of him reels both girls back in. Suddenly, all too fast, they both remember everything that happened the last week, and the last month, and the past two years, years that now feel so distant. The living room seems clearer, and Kiara’s eyes, like a reflex, land on JJ’s red hat that lies on top of the kitchen bar. 

Sarah follows her gaze. And when their eyes meet again, Sarah is already crying.

— Kie, I’m so sorry — 

Kiara has already shortened the distance by the time Sarah stops talking. She surges forward and hugs her friend as tight as she can, and the blonde hugs her back twice as hard, her fingers digging into Kiara’s hoodie. It’s a mess of tears and I’m sorrys . Sarah trying not to cry and failing miserably at it. 

— It’s okay, it’s okay — 

— No, it’s not okay, Kie. I hurt you and I’m so sorry —

Sarah's voice cracks, and it seems to Kiara that Sarah is finally letting go of the past years, allowing herself to break, knowing Kiara will hold her together. 

Kiara steps back from the hug just enough to see Sarah’s face. Her cheeks are wet, her lashes clumped with tears. There’s a tremble in her bottom lip that she tries to bite back, but Kiara sees it. God, she sees it all.

She shakes her head, feeling like absolute shit. 

— No, you didn’t, Sare. I just wanted a reason to be angry —

Her voice is steady, more than she expected. She takes a deep breath and continues, because this part matters. Because Sarah needs to hear it, and Kiara needs to say it.

— I know you guys only wanted the best for me. I know that now—

Sarah nods, still softly crying. She nods, because it’s true, and now they both know it. Yes, we did. Yes, we were just trying to keep you safe. We didn’t know if you would break again.

Kiara knows it’s her fault, and although Sarah doesn’t say it and maybe doesn’t even recognize it, deep down she also knows. So her face changes—just a little. Her expression tightens enough to let Kiara know this conversation isn’t over. The sorrow in her eyes shifts into something more vulnerable and much more heartbroken. A bitter feeling that she’s been carrying around for years and has never dared show.

— You ignored us for almost five days, Kie. —

It sounds like an accusation, but Kiara doesn’t feel bothered or cornered. Because she’s swallowed her pride and accepted the fault. She’s the one who gave them a reason to worry in the past and in the present, and now they will always worry, future tense.

It’s all her fault, actually. 

Her voice is quieter now.

— I know. I’m sorry. It just… it was too much to process, you know? —

She trails off, her throat tightening. 

— I mean… —-

She doesn’t even need to finish the sentence.

I mean… JJ is alive.

They both want to say it. Let it sit. 

Quite frankly, it’s still difficult to comprehend. 

Kiara can’t say those three words, but Sarah still nods, slowly, because yes, she knows. 

JJ is alive, holy shit . 

Even saying those words would make her think of delirium. In a magical, twisted, beautiful, and impossible way, JJ Mayback is alive after dying in her fucking arms.

Since he died that day in Morocco, Kiara has had the recurring dream of JJ being alive.

Sometimes her dreams would be mundane. She would dream of waking up bathed in sunrays, soft, yellow light pouring in through half-open curtains, in an unmade bed and a sometimes known, sometimes unknown room. She would rise, walk across the sometimes unknown, sometimes known hallway, and there would be JJ, making breakfast in the kitchen. Being fucking alive . In her dreams, Kiara always stood back. Hand on her chest while she fought back tears. At first, she wouldn’t say anything. She just stood there, watching him. Soaking in the sight of an undead JJ Maybank.

Then, she would speak. Actually, she would yell, curse, sob. 

She would cry. 

JJ, what are you doing here? You are dead!

JJ would look at her confused or amazed, like she was so silly, so naive. Like she didn’t know a thing. Then, in typical JJ fashion, he would laugh, a little crooked, a little unhinged—such a perfect laugh.

Do I look dead to you, Kie?

She would start crying again, because in her dreams her heart still ached more than words could ever describe, and he would hold her and tease her and whisper against her hair.

You can’t kill a Pogue, Kie. I’m not going anywhere.

Sometimes, the dreams played tricks with her. She dreamt of JJ coming back. Of JJ not dying in her arms. Of JJ calling her from Morocco and saying.  Hi, Kie, I’m alive. 

She’d believe it. She’d believe it every time.

Only to wake up and realize he hadn’t come back, because dead people didn’t just come back to life. He was still gone. She would then realize that it was all a dream. Those moments, she hated life and herself. She hated her subconscious, which made her dream of dead boys walking. Kiara hated herself because she could be so fucking stupid. Of course it wasn’t real.

Dead people didn’t fucking come back to life.

And now he has. 

Now he’s real. Now his red hat is on the kitchen bar, and the evidence of his life is loitering around her friends’ living room like it never left. 

She thinks of the past two years, and she knows Sarah does too. They look at each other, and they both know. How do you forget two years of grief? How can she start ignoring the sorrow, the guilt, the two years of PTSD and depression, and what she still refuses to accept as a drug addiction?

Sarah opens her mouth, maybe to speak, maybe to say something kind or wise or comforting. But nothing comes out.

That’s okay.

They have been standing in silence for a long second when they hear little steps coming to them. 

Moments later, Jackson comes tumbling out of his room with the uncoordinated grace only a toddler can have, his dirty blonde curls a messy wild halo. 

The second he sees Kiara standing there, his eyes light up like Christmas morning.

— Auntie Kie! —

He barrels into her legs like a little missile, and Kiara scoops him up like she’s done hundreds of times before.

Jackson ignores everything that unfolded mere seconds ago. He’s almost 20 months old, and he inherited John B’s never-ending energy. So very excitedly, Jackson tells them to play with him, and so they do. 

Or better said, they assist him in playing. He finds building blocks and hands them to his mom and aunt. They place the blocks, Jackson shakes his head no, so they place them another way, and then he nods happily. They continue playing with the building blocks, laughing every time Jackson pulls out another toy, until they hear a car, followed by doors slamming shut.

Kiara freezes. It could be Pope, it could be Cleo, or maybe Rafe coming to get her so they can lock themselves in different rooms like they have been doing for the past weeks, but she knows it’s him, and her guess is confirmed seconds later when the sound of JJ and John B laughing filters through the windows.

A few seconds later, 

there they are. 

John B walks in first, shaking the ocean water out of his hair. He looks relaxed and sun-kissed, and there’s something different with him. He has that playful glow, the relaxed aura he lost the moment treasure hunting got real. Kiara almost smiles when she sees him, wanting to show him she’s not angry anymore, but she’s distracted by JJ coming in right after him. 

He immediately sees her too.

They haven’t seen each other since the beach. Since she broke down in his arms like an idiot, and he held her even though she didn’t really deserve it. 

Now he’s walking in casually, his hair dripping with salt water, which immediately gives up what Sarah told her, that they were meeting with JJ’s attorneys. His skin is tanned, and he’s wearing John B’s godawful neon Crocs. The scent of sea air clings to him, and the moment Kiara sees him, it punches the air out of her lungs.

He looks too good .

Not just physically—though he does, painfully so—but emotionally. For the first time since he came back, he looks... light. It’s the same relaxed look John B carries with him. He looks like the JJ she fell in love with when she was 16. Wild and golden, untamable, sun-levels of radiant.

They both freeze at the sight of each other, and John B and Sarah do too when they realize the critical situation they now find themselves in. 

Jackson, though? Jackson is blissfully unaware of the boring adult tension. 

— Daddy! Uncle J! Come play!

John B smiles, the sight of his son clearly warming him, but JJ’s eyes never leave Kiara. His smile is slower, more tentative. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be in front of her.

But she gives him a small nod. A silent okay.

So they walk over.

John B drops beside Sarah. JJ moves to Kiara, sitting down slowly beside her, his hands brushing the carpet as he steadies himself. She has to remind herself to breathe. She has to tell herself not to stare at him like she’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

God, he looks like home.

They sit around Jackson, like he’s the center of the universe (their universe). Jackson gives them blocks and toys and assigns them roles like he’s handling very important tasks. He brings a big wooden toy organizer, and without exchanging any words, they start organizing the building blocks by shape. They stop only to laugh when Jackson, with the most concern a 19-month-old toddler can demonstrate, tells John B he’s organizing the shapes wrong.

Eventually Jackson tires and demands his now 30 minutes of Bluey per day. While John B and Sarah are way too used to his shenanigans, JJ laughs at everything the little boy does, and Kiara smiles at his every step. They think their godson is the funniest little boy in the world. 

— I’m surprised you two can keep up with him, — JJ tells them once they have sat on the couch, Jackson sitting on the floor, his big brown eyes glued to the screen.

— We don’t — Sarah adds. — He’s always one step ahead of us —

— It’s our fault for naming the kid Jackson. — John B says, half joking, half fully serious. Because their son was always meant to be Jackson. Even before JJ died in the desert of Morocco, even before they got the terrible idea to treasure hunt. John B’s son was going to be a Jackson. Or maybe not exactly a Jackson, but definitely a Jack, or JJ. There really was no other option. 

— I thought you would have given him a weird-ass hippie name, like Apple or Purple or whatever —  JJ teases, a smirk playing on his lips. 

Sarah rolls her eyes. — We would have, if your name was Apple, or Purple, or whatever —

They all laugh, but Kiara knows what JJ actually means. He didn’t think they’d name the baby after him. He didn’t think he deserved that honor, even with a very real Jackson sitting in front of him.

No matter how many times they told him he was worthy, he could never see it, could never believe it.

And now his name lives in this house and their godson.

It made her heart break. It always did. Since she was 16 —no, quit that, probably since she was 6. 

JJ would never understand how worthy he was—not even when he was somehow brought back from the dead. Kiara wants to scream it into his chest, bury her face in his collarbone, and chant it like a spell: You are enough. You are everything to me. She doesn’t, obviously, because she can’t do that anymore. She doesn’t have that privilege, and even though her heart still beats so fast when she is next to him, they are nothing but friends to each other.

Are they even friends?

The point is that JJ isn’t her boyfriend. Rafe Cameron is. 

If someone had told her that would be the case two years ago, she would have laughed and then called the cops.

The reality of it all is too much for her to process, even though she has had a week to process it. Sitting next to JJ—JJ, who is cracking jokes, JJ, who still is the person she loved   loves more than life—she starts to struggle breathing. Not in a good, take-my-breath-away way. Nope. What she felt was slowly forming into another panic attack.

They ask her opinion about something, Kiara has no idea what, so she repeats whatever Sarah said last. They start laughing, so Kiara pretends to laugh. 

What is she even laughing about?

John B asks if she wanted to stay for lunch, and her breathing evens out a bit. Kiara doesn’t even think before saying yes. Of course she does. Where else would she go? 

She can’t breathe, but she definitely can’t leave. Suddenly the thought of leaving, the image of her exiting the Chateau while four of the people she loves most are here, makes her even more anxious.

She nearly texts Pope and Cleo to come join them. Tell them something about how them being away feels to her like she’s lost two limbs and needs them back now. It’s a crazy thought, but Kiara thinks it’s necessary. 

What Kiara Carrera doesn’t realize is that she’s enjoying herself too much, and that’s not the way her life usually goes. Something must always ruin the fun.

Her phone has to ring.

It isn’t a call at first, just a text. Her phone, lying on the coffee table, screen lighting up in betrayal. A name too familiar. Her boyfriend . Rafe Cameron.

Not just Rafe. Rafe Cameron . That’s how she saved his name in her phone. Cleo told her it was a cold name to save one’s boyfriend’s number; Kiara hadn’t been capable of saving his contact with a heart next to it, like she had done with JJ’s.

Her eyes flicker to the screen, just as JJ's do.

JJ sees it.

Kiara pretends not to have seen the text, but the damage is done. The previously cozy atmosphere is so tense, she could choke. Sarah searches her eyes, but Kiara can’t help but stare at JJ, who’s concentrating on the floor while he tenses his jaw, absently playing with the rings on his fingers. 

Rafe texts her again.

She reaches for her phone, the screen still glowing like it has something to prove. She considers putting it on airplane mode but then realizes something dreadful.

Rafe is calling.

Kiara sits there for one second before she picks up the phone and accepts her fate. She walks out of the house and spends the next 10 minutes arguing with Rafe.

When she comes back inside, JJ is already gone, so Kiara does the only thing that makes sense now, and she leaves too.

/////

The sky is already dark by the time Kiara pulls into the driveway. The porch light glows, but it doesn’t make the house look any warmer—just more exposed, like a stage lit for something catastrophic. She sits in the car for a few minutes with the engine off, staring at the front door. Her body is heavy, and everything inside her feels muted. Just an hour ago, she’d nearly had an anxiety attack in front of her friends—but now she wonders if feeling too much is better than this suffocating numbness.

She’s bracing for impact. She knows she can’t keep dodging Rafe like she has been doing for the past week. But she’s so tired. She was already brave today—she did what she had to do. And yet, all those good feelings crumbled the second JJ’s smile dropped at the sound of Rafe’s name lighting up her phone screen.

Now, she has to be brave again. But god, she really, really doesn’t want to be.

There’s a moment on the porch, just a second, where she thinks about turning back, about running somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore, or where maybe Kiara Carrera doesn’t exist. She doesn’t turn away; instead, her hand finds the doorknob. Kiara twists it, and walks in.

Inside the house, the lights are on. Rafe is pacing around, clearly waiting for her. Waiting for the confrontation they were supposed to have the moment JJ Maybank came back, the same confrontation Kiara has been dodging like the draft. 

The moment Rafe sees her, he stops mid-step. At first, he just sees her, watches her, maybe hoping to recognize the Kiara that’s supposed to love him. There are a few seconds of silent agreement. Nobody yells or talks. But the agreement is broken too soon for Kiara’s taste.

— We need to talk, Kie. I want to speak with you —

She kicks off her shoes, staring at the wooden floor. She doesn’t respond or give him her eyes. By logic, she knows she should. She’s still his girlfriend, and he’s still her boyfriend. They live together, and Rafe hasn’t even done anything wrong.

She should be better for him, but she doesn’t have the strength for it. 

— Kiara — Rafe says louder, trailing her into the kitchen. — Yesterday I told you we could have breakfast together, and you agreed to it. Then you leave before I wake up, and you don’t answer a single one of my messages. Where the hell were you? — 

She opens the fridge, her hand trembling slightly. Over the years, she has become a nervous person, and she doesn’t really know why. She stares at the fridge full of food, evidence of the domesticity of their relationship. The leftover pasta from three days ago (better throw that out), her favorite snacks, their favorite fruits, and unfrozen meat she was going to prep for today’s lunch. 

She shuts the fridge’s door harder than necessary; she’s not really hungry anyways. 

— Don’t fucking ignore me, Kiara! — 

Rafe Cameron has finally snapped, again. 

She turns around slowly, deliberately. Arms crossed. Face flat. — What, now I can’t leave the house without your approval? Do you want me to feel bad about a single missed meal? —

Rafe’s jaw clenches, and there’s that flicker in his eyes Kiara knows so well. — I don’t care about that, Kie; I care that you didn’t tell me you were going out. You leave me waiting, and then you fucking ignore all my messages. You disappear and I… —-

She cuts him off before he can finish.

— I don’t disappear. Seeing my friends who leave like ten minutes away is disappearing according to you now? —

— You went to the fucking Chateau,— he says, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. But there’s no venom behind them, and he doesn’t sound surprised either.

Kiara hates it. It’s like Rafe is telling her, you disappointed me again, you failed me again . They haven’t had this fight before, because JJ hadn’t risen from the dead before, but the fight feels familiar. It takes her a few seconds to recognize why it feels so familiar. 

You disappointed us, Kiara. Why do you always have to go with those filthy Pogues?

— Yes, I did. I went to visit my friends. Do you have a problem with that? —

— Did you see him?

For the first time, Kiara doesn’t argue right back. She can lie, postpone the war, but it would only twist the knife deeper in the long run. She can say the truth, and watch Rafe freak the fuck out.

But it doesn’t matter what she chooses, not really. Because Rafe knows how to see right through her silence.

He lets out a bitter breath. — Right. Of course you did —

She flinches. The familiarity of the fight comes with the familiar feeling of guilt and self-loathing. 

She doesn’t think she did anything wrong. Right? JJ is just her friend. 

— What am I supposed to do, Rafe!? Just cut my friends out of my life because my boyfriend came back from the dead?

— Ex-boyfriend — 

Kiara just stares.

A beat too late, it hits her.

She said boyfriend. Present tense.

JJ was her boyfriend— past tense.

Rafe takes a step back, hands up like a white flag. — Look, Kie, I’m not mad. I just—fuck! You have to understand how it makes me feel. I’m losing my fucking mind. —

—- That’s your issue, not mine —

She knows she’s being a bitch, and she feels guilty about it, but just like years before, even months before, she doesn’t know how to stop.

— You know I’ve been trying, Kiara. I’ve been trying to act better… and be… and be fucking better for you. I’m not trying to control you, cause’ I don’t wanna be that guy again. I’m glad Maybank didn’t have to die out there alone in the desert. Course’ you don’t believe me, but I am, you know, glad. But since he came back, you’ve been way too different, and you can’t even look at me! So forgive me for wanting a damn heads-up when you go to see him. —

— I don’t owe you updates, Rafe! —

— Yes, you do! You are my fucking girl; you live here, for fuck’s sake! —

— And maybe that was a mistake —

The room fractures. The words tear it open like glass under a falling piano.
For the first time today, Rafe goes still. His breath stops short, and it’s like the floor drops out from under him.

He blinks slowly. Stunned, like he can’t believe she just said 

— Wow, Carrera —

Kiara immediately regrets it, but the damage is done, and the guilt slowly creeps on her. Her eyes well up with tears, so she looks down to the tiled floor and hopes Rafe doesn’t notice. 

She feels so stupid, for so many reasons. 

— I didn’t mean it like that. —

—Yeah, you fucking did,— he throws back, his voice splitting open again.

—- No, Rafe, wait… Listen, I’m just tired. —

—Tired of me? — he asks.

Tired of everything, she thinks. Tired of this fight already. Tired of herself, of the past and the grief. She’s tired of feeling sad, but she’s too tired to try something else. It’s been a while since she felt this tired.

Defeated. 

She finds herself needing help again but being too tired to ask for it. 

She turns to go, feet moving before her thoughts do. Maybe it’s for the best if she leaves and disappears. But Rafe’s hand finds her wrist. The touch is not rough nor hard—just enough to stop her in her tracks.

—I'm not him, Kie,— he says.

— I know —

— I don’t leave you —

— I know, Rafe. I know, just let it go —

He doesn’t argue back now. But his silence is loud, and Kiara knows he’s judging her again. Finally, she looks up at him and sees his jaw clenched like he’s biting down on everything he wants to throw at her.

She wants to ask him, what do you want from me?

Too scared of what he might answer, though.

— I love you, Kie. — 

There’s those three words again. Why does he keep saying that?

It’s like trying to remind her of everything, not just the I-love-yous , but everything , everything he did for her, everything they went through together in Morocco and Portugal, and even here, in Kildare, when he saved her, and she then said, thank you, Rafe, for the first time. 

—I love you,— he says again, stepping closer, his voice cracking like the floor beneath her feet. — I can’t lose you, Kie. Please . I know you are going through a lot, but don’t forget us. I was there for you when nobody else was, it fucking meant something—(it’s a bit of a lie, her friends were there for her; she just couldn’t stand their presence)—  I love you, and now that you are mine, I don’t want to not have you ever again. —-

She looks up at him. His eyes are bloodshot—whether from anger or exhaustion, she isn’t sure—and there’s a tremble in his hands, in his voice, and in the space between them. He looks like he’s unraveling, right there in front of her.

And he’s right. It did mean something.

It means the nights she sat beside him when he couldn’t sleep, the way he held her hand through her worst memories, the silence he filled when she didn’t have the words. It means how he tried—really tried—to be better, and all he did was only because of her. Maybe some of it was because of Sarah and Jackson too, but almost everything Rafe Cameron has done for the past two years has been because of and about Kiara Carrera.

It means the roof over her head, the quiet gratitude she’s never said aloud for the ways he’s caught her when she stumbled, even when she hated him. Even when she didn’t know how to forgive him. Even now.

It means debt. And loyalty. And the gnawing guilt she feels every time JJ’s name passes through her thoughts like a ghost she can’t exorcise.

She doesn’t speak. But her silence this time is different. It isn’t rejection.

She doesn’t move when he leans in. Doesn’t pull back when his lips find hers.

No matter how she truly feels, she will be forever indebted to Rafe Cameron.

But her eyes stay open when he kisses her.

And in her mind, for just one fractured second, she dares imagine a different shade of blond hair.

/////

JJ hears it before he sees it.

Kiara’s phone vibrates on the counter. The last name he wishes would, pops up on her screen. 

Rafe.

Of course.

Just like that, it is over. Whatever had been holding him up since he walked into the Chateau and saw her, snaps. His feeling of happiness and wholeness, the stupid smile he had been fighting back the moment he heard her speak, just crumbles. 

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t let himself linger long enough to see her pick it up.

One moment he’s sitting down beside her, the next moment he has gotten up, and he’s already out of the Chateau.

Somehow, he starts running. An annoying inner voice that sounds a hell lot like his dad (whichever dad, it doesn’t matter) tells him the only thing he’s good for is to run away. 

The sky is slipping into bruised colors, and the trees stretch long and low around him as he pushes through the trail behind the Chateau. His steps don’t feel real. They’re just motion, and JJ realizes he really is good at running, at running away. It doesn’t matter. 

The smell of sea salt clings to the air. When he reaches the dunes right behind the beach, he drops hard, but he’s so deep in survival mode that he doesn’t care about catching himself. 

The words start tormenting him again.

She’s nothing to you anymore, she’s nothing to you anymore. She will never be your girl again. 

Kiara is Rafe’s girl now.

The sob comes out of nowhere.

He bends forward, hands clutching the sand. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He hates himself for crying, for breaking down like this, but it’s like everything is crashing down at the same time. 

Two years. Two years without her. He’d imagined their reunion a thousand times. And somehow none of those scenarios ended with her walking out to answer Rafe fucking Cameron’s phone call.

— JJ! —

The fuck does John B want now? Why is he everywhere JJ goes? Why can’t he see he’s slowly dying?

— JJ, hold on! —

A hand finds his shoulder—warm, solid, familiar. It startles him, and JJ tries to fight it, but soon John B is holding his shoulders with both hands, and he crouches in the sand.

Always ready to follow JJ anywhere he goes. 

— You gotta breathe, dude,— John B says, eyes scanning his friend, as if checking no damage has been done in the physical sense. — Hey, hey, come on. Look at me. You’re okay —

JJ tries, he does his best to breathe. But his chest is collapsing in on itself and his eyes sting too much to focus. The breath won’t come right. His body shakes like it’s stuck between fight and flight with nowhere to go.

— You’re okay, JJ, it’s just a panic attack right? — John B murmurs, making sure JJ doesn’t fall like he desperately wishes to do. — Just breathe, man. I’ve got you. —

— Does this look like okay to you? — JJ can barely channel enough strength to speak.

—- Yes, you are,— John B says, gentler now, though his grip doesn’t ease. — You’re just overwhelmed, and you had a panic attack, like anyone in your situation would. You’ve been here before. Remember? —

JJ nods, barely. His throat burns, and his eyes flood again with useless tears he can’t even be angry about anymore.

— I… I didn’t think it would feel like this — he croaks.

John B doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t say it will get better, or that it won’t hurt soon, because he knows Kiara so well, and he knows JJ even more, and like everyone around them, he knows their heartbreak doesn’t get better.

Under no circumstances will JJ stop needing Kie, and under no circumstances will Kie not need JJ. 

John B knows better than to imply it will, so he just sits beside JJ and hopes his presence will somehow calm him.

They sit like that for a long while. The only sound is the wind breathing through the dunes and the ocean whispering nearby, endless and indifferent. It’s the kind of moment that should bring peace. But JJ still feels like he’s splintering from the inside out.

Eventually, in a voice raw and barely above the wind, JJ asks, —Why does it still hurt this much? —-

He feels like a little kid asking that, but maybe his friend will be able to say something that will wise him up.

John B’s answer kind of sucks, because it’s true, and it isn’t what JJ was hoping to hear 

— Because  you love her —

JJ closes his eyes, jaw clenched. Fuck you, Bree , he thinks. 

—She went home to him? — he says. It’s not a question; he knows the answer.

— She did. —

JJ feels like crying like a baby again when suddenly John B speaks again. — But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. She left because she had to, and because it looked like you were ready to explode. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you, man. I mean, it’s obvious she still does. —

JJ doesn’t answer.

His body feels drained, like the sobs hollowed him out from the inside. The sand clings to his hoodie, gritty in the creases of his sleeves, his palms, and his mouth. 

He stares at nothing. Why does he keep going from feeling too much to feeling too numb?

— JJ — John slow calls him — Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know, but if you just talk to her… I know you miss her. And she has missed you for two years. Maybe if you just ask her how she feels… —

The violent, erratic part of JJ wants to yell at John B for even implying what he just did, but he manages to contain the outburst. Still, he shakes his head.

— Don’t —

— I’m just saying… —

— Look, man… I… I can’t do that. I fucking won’t. I’d be humiliated, and then she wouldn’t dare look at me, and it just felt so… easy today when she was next to me. I can’t lose her again… I can’t lose any of you guys again. —- 

He sees the last part to save a little bit of face. JJ Maybank is used to feeling stupid, but he thinks he has not felt stupid like this in a while. In Morocco, and in his journey across the Mediterranean, everyone was in their own twisted world, and he had more dangerous things to worry about. If he cried about Kiara, he didn’t feel stupid, because everyone around him was also crying about someone they loved. And when he cried about Kiara, death was always there. following his footsteps, so why would someone feel stupid when they are about to die?

Now death has left him alone, and he’s back home. Now he’s just a lovesick, heartbroken 21-year-old boy crying on the beach over the prettiest girl in the world. 

— You won’t lose her, and you won’t lose us,— John B says. A bit after, he says, quieter now, — I will do everything it takes to make sure we never get separated again. Pogues for life, remember? — 

They sit there for a little while longer, the afternoon curling in around them like a fist. The ocean murmurs a lullaby that doesn’t soothe. The wind picks up, sharp with salt and seaweed, and the faint scent of her perfume is still stuck somewhere in his mind. He presses a hand against his ribs like it’ll help hold him together.

Eventually, John B helps him to his feet.

One step, then another.

— Let’s go back inside. I’ll cook us all some lasagna. When Jackson’s taking his nap, I’ll convince Sarah to let us smoke some weed — 

/// 

JJ starts showing up at the docks more and more. At first, it’s just somewhere to go. Somewhere quiet, where John B is not asking questions or trying to press him to confess to Kiara he’s still a little (a lot) in love with her. It’s also a place far away from Sarah’s concerned gaze. But soon it becomes a pattern. Not quite a routine—he’s not organized enough for that, never was—but a place he always ends up. Everything is familiar to him, but not too familiar, so it doesn’t freak him out. More real and comforting than spending his entire day in the Chateau. 

People notice him. They always do. Dock workers. Fishermen. Kooks and Pogues alike. The only ones who don’t stare are tourists, and he starts liking them. It’s quite ironic. Two years ago, if someone had granted him a wish, freeing the Outer Banks from tourists and Airbnbs would have been a top five priority for him. 

When he comes here, he likes going to the edge of the dock, where there are no yachts and boats and almost no people—just him, the sea, and the ocean breeze. Little by little, Kildare starts feeling his again.

Today his ritual is the same. Head to the docks, stare at the sea, give directions to lost tourists, and avoid the fishermen who always ask him how it was working as one of them in Alaska. 

But today is different, because today he sees Rafe.

JJ watches as Rafe Cameron steps out of a yacht. It isn’t the same boat that used to be under Ward’s name. No, this one is bigger and brand new, and JJ remembers John B mentioning how Cameron family business was thriving nowadays. 

Socializing with Rafe Cameron isn’t part of his plans, or something he ever wants to do again (he would rather visit the resting place of his biological dad and ask for another stab in the abdomen), so he turns his back on the older man, but Rafe must spot him, because he soon calls out his name.

— Yo, Maybank! —

Of course. Nothing is ever simple for JJ.

Rafe steps forward. He doesn’t look cocky, doesn’t smirk, and doesn’t puff himself up the way he usually does. If they were two nameless North Carolinans who had never met before, JJ would feel inclined to talk to him.

Except they are not two nameless guys. They are Rafe Cameron and JJ Maybank, and they are supposed to despise each other.

JJ has kept his part of the dynamic, but Rafe Cameron doesn’t seem to despise him anymore.

— Didn’t expect to see you here —

JJ scoffs. It comes out dry and rude. — What, you own the docks now too? —

He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. His voice shakes a little at the end, and he knows Rafe hears it.

Yet Rafe doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t laugh or bite back. He just exhales, letting the smoke of his cigarette trail out over the water.

JJ studies him, unsure what he’s even looking for. The guy looks like hell, and this is him being objective. Pale. Shadows under his eyes. Hair messy like he hasn’t touched it. But there’s something else. Something in the way he’s holding himself that JJ can’t read.

— You look like shit,— JJ mutters. It’s the only card he’s got left.

— You look worse, — Rafe says, also stating a fact.

JJ steps closer, his jaw tight. — What the fuck do you want? —

—- Nothing, Maybank, I’m not here to fight — More than angry or cornered, Rafe seems annoyed. If JJ didn’t know better, he would imagine Rafe was actually expecting a civilized chat. JJ does know better, though.

— Bullshit. Like anyone would believe that, fucking Kook. —

He gets no reactions from Rafe. 

It’s starting to freak him out. 

Hearing the stupid and big part of his brain, he decides to shove Rafe. Not hard enough, because he’s not that stupid, but hard enough to expect Rafe to throw arms. 

Rafe just takes it. 

— Go ahead, — Rafe says. — If it helps. —-

It doesn’t. Lately, nothing helps.

— Don’t think I can beat your ass, Cameron? One of these days, I swear, I fucking will —

— I know you can, Maybank. But you are the one who wants a fight—

JJ tends to have more self-control than this. He used to behave better, even if the other person in front of him was Rafe Cameron. All that little self-control he had seems to have gone out the window. 

He says something really, really stupid.

— Tell Kie I said hi —

JJ’s words hang there—light as ash, sharp as a knife—and he watches Rafe like a fuse waiting to burn.

Rafe rolls his eyes, but to JJ, it’s a small victory.

Finally, he starts looking angry.

— Real mature — 

— Oh, is that awkward now? — 

Rafe’s mouth is a hard line. — Fuck off, Maybank. Kiara’s finally doing fine. Don’t fuck it up. And she’s not yours to talk about —

— But she was. — His eyes flicker, taunting. — And now I’m back. Funny how timing works, huh? —

— You think coming back from the dead earns you something? —- 

—- I don’t need to earn anything. —- JJ shrugs, trying to act chill. — I just need to remind her of something. —

— Remind her of what? The guy who disappeared and didn’t bother telling her he was alive for two years? The guy who let us all think he was rotting in some unmarked grave? The one who caused her two years of hellish nightmares…?

JJ steps forward. He can feel the self-control slowly slipping away. He doesn’t want to cause Kiara any more heartbreak, but a part of him desperately wants to beat the shit out of Rafe Cameron and make sure they never have another conversation again.

 —- Still better than the guy who waited for her to be vulnerable enough to crawl into her bed —-

That one lands.

Rafe blinks, then exhales. The nonchalant act immediately falls.

Yeah, what JJ just said definitely landed, and it earns him another victory.

It also makes him wonder if it is true. If Rafe waited for Kiara to hit rock bottom, just to get in her pants.

And if it was like that, then what the hell is he supposed to do?

— I didn’t crawl into anything,— he says, voice low. — She was shattered. And I was there. Can you guess who fucking wasn’t? —-

— Just shattered enough for you to play savior? How convenient. —-

— Is that what you think our relationship is, Maybank? I would never fucking take advantage. of her —

 JJ circles him, each step like a challenge. — You mean like you didn’t used to creep on her when she was 14 and you were almost an adult? C’mon, Cameron, who do you think you are fooling? —

Rafe meets his gaze. —- I gave her everything for the past two years. What the fuck have you done for her? The last favor you did her was die. 

— You gave her everything? Guess Kooks never change, always thinking material stuff replaces your shitty souls. —

— What the fuck is your problem, Maybank!? —

— My problem is that I know exactly the type of trash you are, and I swear to God, if you ever hurt Kie —

— Why would I hurt Kie? Are you even listening to yourself? —

— Are you hearing yourself, man!? You once put your hands around her neck and squeezed—

— Stop — 

Rafe takes a step back.

— Please stop, Maybank. —

Rafe sounds deeply defeated, and JJ realizes that he has won today.

Rafe’s pleas fall on deaf ears. He isn’t over, and if he’s acting like an asshole, then Rafe still deserves it. 

— I know exactly what kind of psycho trash you are. Don’t think for a second you fooled me —

Rafe nods.

At least he owns it.

Psycho trash.

/////

That night, the nightmares return.

JJ tosses and turns on the nice guest bed at the Chateau. His sheets twist around him, his shirt clings with sweat. He dreams of the ocean and endless desert. Of the cave, the boats, and the tiny prison cell he called home for months. Of the fighting, Groff’s voice, Kiara shouting his name, the cold feeling of a knife against his torso. Blood in his mouth. That sharp, sick feeling of hope slipping away. He wakes up gasping, reaching for something that isn’t there. 

He’s crying, and he asks himself, JJ, why do you always have to wake up crying?

John B rushes in, bleary-eyed and alarmed. He scans JJ for cracks, just like he always scans Kie, and sees cracks everywhere, in the ceiling, on the floor, on his best friend. — JJ? What’s going on, man? —

JJ sits up, quickly wiping at his face. — Nothing, twas nothing. I’m fine. —

John B doesn’t buy it. — You were screaming, JJ. I heard you screaming Kiara’s name. —

The embarrassment comes too quick, and along with it comes the rage.

— Shut the fuck up, Routledge. —

— Dude, Jackson and Sarah are sleeping down the hall. — John B doesn’t look mad at JJ, and it strikes JJ that ever since he came back, and especially ever since he saw Kie again, John B has been treating him way too good, much more than what JJ actually deserves.

And now he feels bad.

— Sorry, man. I’m just… I’m tired. But fine —

John B sinks onto the chair in front of him, arms crossed. — That doesn’t work with me, JJ. I know how you’ feeling, and you aren't fine—

JJ drags his hands down his face. — I can’t sleep, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? — 

Silence hangs for a moment.

—  Maybe you should talk to someone,—  John B says softly, doing his best for JJ to understand.

It’s too much to ask; both know it. JJ won’t understand.

His head snaps up. — No .— 

— JJ, I’m serious.— 

— No therapy. No counselors or shrinks. That stuff doesn’t work. — 

— You don’t know that. — 

— I do,— JJ snaps, getting to his feet. Staying still has never been his thing. — You think telling a stranger what Groff did to me, what my dad did to me… what I went through in that fucking desert, you think telling that shit to someone will make me feel good? Better? Would you like to relive the worst moment of your miserable life? — 

The words echo in the space between them. Too loud. Too real.

 — You can’t understand. You weren’t there. — 

— I’m just trying to help, JJ,—  John B says, standing too.

JJ’s voice cracks. — Want to help me? Then stop. I don’t want your help. —- 

— Well, dude, I’m sorry, but you need it. — 

JJ’s fists clench. — I didn’t have help for two years. I survived on my own. Don’t act like I need it now. — 

It’s dark, the hours of the early morning. They are arguing between whispers, and JJ is still dazed from the sleep. He doesn’t see well. Doesn’t see the shape of the moon or the silhouette of the room.

But he sees clearly how John B’s eyes well up with tears.

He asks himself if he was meant to have friends at all. Or if there was an error, and by mistake, a divine figure put the Pogues in his way.

The only thing JJ is certain of is that he’s a shitty friend. 

Still in his pajamas, he grabs the nearest hoodie. He’s such a shitty friend, and maybe it’s best for everyone that he leaves.

— I need air. — 

— JJ, where are you going? — 

— Anywhere but here. — 

He walks out. The screen door slams behind him, the sound slicing through the quiet like a knife. 

John B stays in the guest room. He sits on the bed where JJ was sleeping just mere minutes ago, and he tries to comfort himself.

Something he has never been good at. 

John B spends the next hours slowly crying, staring at the empty space JJ left behind.