Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One evening on a bench turns into two. Turns into four, then six. Most evenings but not all - a steady stream of them, over two weeks.

When Kiara Carrera turns up at closing with yet another coffee, Matilda barely squawks. Just leans back and yells, “she’s back!”

JJ is buried amongst a mostly broken shelving unit at the back of the shop. His head jerks, hitting the shelf above him. The “fuck,” echoes around the empty store.

“I can go.” He has to close his eyes, because he thinks it’s teasing. Warm and knowing and all too fucking much. Kiara Carrera in his store. Kiara Carrera mocking him in his own store.

“Looking for Narnia?” It’s much closer, now. Makes him jump, jerking upright - his head slamming right into the shelf. His hand flies to his crown, rubbing vigorously. If his eyes fill with pain-induced tears and he has to stare at the back of the shelving unit to blink them away - well, that’s his business.

“For what?”

“Narnia.” Kiara Carrera is watching him as he snatches a quick, watery glance at her. She’s wearing wide-legged linen pants and a long t-shirt, as though it can disguise her toned to fuck physique. The baseball cap, braids and oversized sunglasses do not obscure the whole superstar thing. JJ wishes it would. It would make every interaction a hell of a lot easier. At his silence, Kiara sighs. “Another one for the list.”

It turns out Kiara Carrera has seen all the films he hasn’t and barely seen any of the films he has.

They have a fucking list, apparently. Like they're a step away from splitting earbuds and watching films on a bench.

It's a credit to his conversion to becoming a Carrera simp, because that doesn't even sound too bad, as date ideas go.

Are they even dating?

A braid becomes untucked from the neckline of her shirt as she tilts her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah - fucking shelves." He has boots on today due to the rain showers earlier on. The linoleum turns into an ice rink at the slightest sniff of adverse weather conditions. Matilda has already ended up on top of one customer in her endeavour to help them up from the floor, despite having the anchoring weight of a pomeranian. The boots are the only reason he can aim a kick at the shelves, which shudder and creak in protest.

"Think you need new shelves," the mega superstar comments, rattling the second coffee. The contents swill ominously.

JJ snorts. "Are they paying you enough to think?" It's spiteful and harsh and way over whatever line they have. Hurt flashes across her face - not brazenly, but in the way her mouth tightens and her gaze flicks away quickly. He wants to apologise. Wants to hit his head against the shelves. His tongue touches his lower lip and he tastes salt and regret. Makes a conscious effort to soften his tone. "They broke earlier," he explains. "Broke loads of dumb dolphin and turtle ornaments. Turns out you shouldn't use them as a jungle gym," the last bit is louder, called across the store.

"I said I'm sorry!" Matilda yells back. "And they were broken way before I rested my foot on the shelf!"

"Rested your foot? You climbed it like a tree-"

"I barely got off the floor-"

"Because you broke it!"

"I said I'll fix it! Or get Beth to fix it, which is the same thing."

JJ rolls his eyes elaborately, pressing his lips together so he doesn't smirk and ruin his street credit. He's an authoritative boss. His staff respect him.

Maybe it's relief that curls in his stomach as Kiara's gaze returns to him, and the coffee is proffered once more. It's warm against his palm as he cradles it.

"Frozone is back on strawberry." As olive branches go, it's definitely split and trampled into the mud. But maybe being famous really does suck, because she seems to forgive him.

"With toppings?"

"Don't push your luck."

Matilda is rearranging the counter or doing whatever Matilda does. She's singing as she does so, out of tune, no discernable song.

Frozone takes two kicks before he gurgles his displeasure and produces one and a half cups of strawberry froyo. JJ scoops extra freeze-dried raspberries into the emptier cup, then three meagre pieces onto the fuller one. Hands it to Kiara who appraises her lack of toppings with a barely suppressed grin.

"Asshole."

"That's me."

She pays, because she has always paid so far and it's an argument he doesn't want to breach.

He knows this routine by now.

"You okay to close?" He checks with Matilda.

There's something he thinks is a hair flip. "Please. I'm a pro at closing." At his continued look, she tucks her chin downwards. "Fine, I've closed like, five times. But practice makes perfect."

JJ snorts. "Reassuring. Thanks, man."

"Woman!" Is the yelled response, but he's already yanking the door open so Kiara can traipse outside.

It's a still evening. The kind that follows a day of rain, which has driven all of the tourists inside to batten down the hatches and wait for sunnier days. The streets are much emptier than usual. Kiara still pulls the cap down over her forehead and pushes the sunglasses further up her nose.

It's a juggling act, holding both coffee and froyo. He's not a complete idiot, so he doesn't choose the same bench every time. Although he does wonder if two weeks makes it a thing. Is this now a thing?

Kiara Carrera sits delicately next to him in white linen pants, seemingly determined to ignore the dampness from still lingering droplets of rain which will inevitably permeate through the material.

She takes a decidedly non-delicate spoonful of strawberry FroYo and sighs. "God bless Frozone."

JJ makes sure she gets a good view of his topping-laden first portion. "God certainly did not bless Frozone. Or God did bless Frozone and gave him the ability to be an asshole."

"I think maybe that's your store," Kiara ponders. There's a freeze-dried raspberry segment stuck to her upper lip. JJ tries not to stare at it too much. "Everyone is an asshole. Maybe you should call it All Aboard the Asshole."

"Title of my sex tape."

The snort is undignified, so loud and unexpected she almost swallows her wooden spoon. Cheeks tinged pink, Kiara splutters a little before recovering. "I'll have to run that one past my manager before accepting the casting."

JJ raises an eyebrow and spears approximately half the remaining FroYo onto one spoonful. His jaw unhinges and he considered making airplane noises before deciding on the slightly more polite manner of shoving it all into his mouth at once.

He likes to imagine that her look of disgust is tinged with a little admiration.

With some effort and mild chewing before realising FroYo is not a chewable item, JJ swallows. "Who said you were being cast?"

"You have some on your chin," she tells him with delight, but he notices her cheeks and ears are decidedly pinker again. "Loads of raspberry. Like little red ants."

"Not sure the producers of All Aboard the Asshole could afford your day rate. What is it, a million for a cameo?"

There's an idle shrug of one shoulder. "Probably just dinner."

JJ whistles. "Cheap date." He tips a little coffee into the remaining FroYo, mostly to be an asshole. "Besides, I refute your asshole accusation. Matilda is not an asshole."

"She broke your shelves."

"Yeah. I'm also pretty sure she breaks more stock than she sells, but. She is getting better at closing."

"Fine. Matilda is exempt from the asshole agenda."

"What about Pope?"

"The Pope?"

"No, the other one. John Pope."

"Isn't the Pope called John?"

"Well, yeah. And this one is too. But - different pope."

"I am reluctant to call the Pope an asshole when we're in public. Google Earth - she's always watching." She watches as he tips more coffee into his tiny cardboard tub and mashes it together. "That's gross."

"You're gross."

"Oh, great come-back."

JJ speaks around a mouthful of coffee and FroYo. "Well, you're still here."

Kiara looks slightly pained. "Yeah, against my better judgement." Her consumption of the FroYo and coffee is decidedly more delicate and separate. "I think my manager is gonna have a coronary if I keep sneaking out to sit on benches with locals."

Look, maybe he has Google-mapped and studied the most remote benches. Maybe he has considered their orientation and whether people could hide around some corner or whether they'd escape notice. He was there when the public caught wind of Kiara Carrera's presence. He was there when they rattled the security fencing and screamed her name. All hoping for a sliver of attention, a look or a wave.

And yet here she is.

And here he is, a local. Like some pet project.

"I didn't ask you to come," he points out gruffly. Mostly because he's a defensive asshole. Mostly because whenever he feels threatened he throws the first punch. Gets in there first to minimise the overall damage.

"No," she agrees. There's a silence which feels weighty and tense. Stretched out between them, unbroken and unchallenged. There's a different edge to this evening. "Should I go?"

There's a moment when running into the sea where you can save yourself from the cold bite of the Atlantic ocean. Save yourself from the crashing waves and the vastly increased risk of injury or drowning.

He is ten feet into the ocean.

"No," he says it quickly. "Or, you could at least wait until I finish my coffee. Only polite."

There's half a smirk which is eradicated almost as quickly as it arrived. Kiara sips her coffee and stretches out her legs, ankles crossed daintily.

"I always thought I'd end up by the sea," she divulges.

"Go buy some mega mansion in Florida with a private beach."

"Who says I haven't already?"

There's some movement in the distance. A flash of light and some hasty shuffling. Every muscle in Kiara's body tightens, her shoulders wrenched backwards. She tries not to stare too obviously, sneaking snatched looks.

She says, "seriously, my manager is gonna kill me. It's a miracle we haven't been papped already."

He can't help the self-satisfaction that curls in his stomach. Kiara Carrera not wanting to be photographed with a lowly local. Not wanting to be seen to associate with him.

"Gee, a photo," he mocks. "Pretty sure there are worse things we could be shot with than some long-range lens."

"It's not just a photo," she protests. "It's going viral on stan accounts. It's about them finding out who you are and finding your store and descending there. It's about questions and being followed because God forbid that the media has anything more worthy to report than Kiara sitting on a bench with a man."

JJ looks to either side. "Well, it is a damn nice bench. And an all-American, homegrown, organic local man. Chalk it up as a charity event or something. Could even turn up tomorrow in costume if you wanna go the extra mile."

"And which costume is that? The tiny blue bikini or the even smaller red one?"

"Well," he thinks there's half a smirk. "I think either will do."

Too distracted by the potential infiltrator, Kiara chews her lip in lieu of continuing wherever this conversation was going. "I'm serious," it's barely above a murmur and she won't look at him. "Maybe we should, like, do dinner. Or something."

"Are you asking me out?"

"I'm fucking trying to, yeah."

JJ tries to process that information. The wooden spoon sticks out of his mostly melted FroYo. "Dinner where?"

"I don't know. I can get Sarah to sort it. But you're the local."

"I'll have to know before I can confirm my attendance. I have a highly sensitive palate."

"You just mixed filter coffee and strawberry FroYo."

"And raspberries. Don't forget the raspberries."

"Oh, how could I? Maybe because some asshole forgot my raspberries."

"You're mentioning assholes a lot. I'm beginning to think you have a complex."

"Or maybe you're an asshole."

"Ah, but a complex one."

There's more movement in the same spot. Kiara stands abruptly, turning her back to them. But not before JJ has a full view of the seat of her pants, rendered opaque by the rain drops on the bench. His mouth goes momentarily dry and he feels the need to stare at the sky for ten seconds to regain composure.

"I'm thinking Thursday," Kiara proposes. But it's hesitant. Damn near shy. "I'll text you the details."

"I haven't said yes yet," he reminds her.

"Will you?"

She's helped by the setting sun. Helped by biting her lower lip and looking nervous, sharp teeth making indents in the skin.

As though free will is something he still possesses since she walked barefoot into his store.

"Yeah," he says, even though he has no real choice. "I'll even wash my hair."

*

"Maybe I'll just cancel." JJ pulls another shirt from the rack, then shoves the hanger back onto the rail. Matilda is further down in the pink section, shifting clothes so rapidly that the metal hangers squeal their displeasure at being disturbed.

"You can't cancel with," Matilda checks her watch, which is oversized and bright orange. He thinks it's also waterproof, for all the avoiding the sea she does, "less than an hour to go."

"How much less than an hour?"

"Ten minutes. No, thirteen. Actually - is it fourteen?" At his look, Matilda checks her watch once more. "It's about a quarter past."

JJ pulls another shirt off the rail. Matilda shakes her head.

The bell at the door trills. JJ whips his head towards the noise, then Matilda. "I thought you closed," he hisses.

"I got sidelined by trying to save your outfit!"

"I don't even know why I'm taking advice from someone who wears the same black sweater and jeans all year round," he complains to the rail.

"It's called a capsule wardrobe," Matilda protests. "It's both fiscally and environmentally friendly."

"Physically?"

They're cut off by a hesitant "hello?" called down the aisle. JJ briefly considers launching himself into the rail of shitty Hawaiian shirts before remembering he very much has rent to pay.

"Matilda-a," he wheedles.

"You owe me so much overtime," Matilda complains. Then she calls, "present! Just - uh - have a look around and I'll ring you up when you're ready."

There's some clacking which sounds vaguely like heels. Then-

“Fake Rafe?”

"Sarah?" He extracts his arm from the rack.

Together they say, "what are you doing here?"

"Me first," Sarah demands. "Aren't you meeting Kie?" Her eyes darken and her mouth tightens. "Are you standing her up? Because trust me - she is way too good for you to have the gall to do that."

Matilda launches in. "Costume lady! No - God, no. JJ sweated through one shirt and looked up the menu of the place and now we're trying to get a different outfit because I'm not sure you can wear shorts in a place which serves steak tartare."

"It's not a church," JJ mutters petulantly. "And I did not sweat."

"Sure, sure," Matilda dismisses him. "But you're in costumes! You could help?"

It's somewhat reassuring that even ice-cold Sarah isn't immune to Matilda's enthusiasm. Her eyes flick between them and her chin lowers minutely. "She likes blue."

Matilda relocates to the blue section of shirts, joined by Sarah. They rifle through, pulling out shirts and shaking their heads at various options.

He ends up in a white t-shirt and a pair of Carhartt pants that they stock for the rare skateboarder who wants to jump on Tiktok trends. Sarah rolls up the t-shirt's sleeves, adds a plaid shirt over the top, then promptly takes it back off.

JJ slaps at her hands when she starts tugging her hands through his hair.

"Do you ever comb this?" she berates.

"Get - off me, woman."

"Uh," Matilda's voice is small. "JJ, it's ten to."

"Aw, shit."

Sarah swipes some no doubt nonexistent lint from his shirt. "Give her hell. But don't really."

"Okay. Can you call her and tell her I'll be like twenty minutes? Maybe ten, if I run."

"You'll get all sweaty again," Matilda points out. "And you don't glow, you just go all red and clammy."

"No I don't."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "I'll just give you a ride. C'mon, casanova. See you soon," the last is politely aimed at Matilda, who gives a wave despite standing six feet away.

Taylor Swift begins blaring from Sarah's Lexus’ speakers as soon as the engine starts. She says, "don't," in a low voice.

The restaurant is on the other side of the island. The distinctly Kook side. Which is undoubtedly why JJ has never even heard of it - that, and it selling things such as steak tartare. Matilda had had to Google what the fuck that even was. Had gone quiet when they both looked at the prices. Which was round about when JJ started sweating.

The properties change from approachable and lived-in to removed from the main road and gated.

Sarah bites out, "if I find out you're some journalist or a low life that's gonna sell some shitty story or try and get nudes or something for a quick buck, I will hunt you down and I will cut off your balls with a rusty scalpel and shove them down your throat."

"Why rusty?"

"So if you don't die of blood loss you also get tetanus." She stamps on the accelerator. "I don't know why, but Kie seems to like you. But she's not some - some zoo animal. She's a real person. Yeah, an uber-hot and rich and famous one - but money doesn't erase feelings. So just. Be nice to her, okay? Otherwise - balls, scalpel. Rust."

"Do you have to get a clearance check to work on sets? On an unrelated note, have you passed a background check?"

The stare is steely and unamused.

"I promise not to sell the nudes. They should probably be provided to the masses for free as a matter of public interest or something."

Sarah stamps on the brakes outside (fancy place), almost projecting him face-first onto the dashboard. She still looks distinctly unamused. "Just be nice."

"Not really my thing."

"You're the worst."

"Thank you." The door slams, but he opens it again. "Pope already made sure I've got all my shots, so I think I'm immune to rust."

The answer is a firm middle finger as the door slams shut once more. There's some minor tyre spin as she pulls away sharply, only to almost slam into an oncoming Tesla who pips their horn in discontent.

The back and forth and shitty driving display hasn't distracted him sufficiently from his hammering heart, which threatens to break his ribs.

There's a dark-haired host at the door who flicks a look at JJ's t-shirt and slacks outfit. Lingers on his battered Vans. He's tempted to point out that most of the outfit is brand new but considering the man is wearing a waistcoat, judges that he won't be impressed.

"I'm here to see, uh, Jacinda Ardern?"

He's led through the main seating area, which is when he realises he's most definitely underdressed. Everyone else is in shirts and pant suits. Each table is lit overhead with dim orange exposed bulbs - the rest of the restaurant has leant heavily into exposed pipes and brickwork with copper accents.

JJ didn't even know this place existed.

The host's leather-soled and wooden-heeled shoes tap as they ascend a small flight of stairs, hidden near the jacket closet. There's a door at the top and another man - but the host nods to him, so he stands aside to let them enter the room.

It's smaller than downstairs, but big enough to fit more than the singular table in the centre. Kiara has kicked off her shoes and is sitting with one leg tucked underneath her, emerald material pooling in her chair. She's spinning an empty wine glass by the stem, her mouth downturned. Her hair is tucked neatly into a chignon and he is not a simp for the way he misses her braids.

The door opening makes her look, then the cutlery on the table rattles as her elbow knocks against it, water threatening to spill onto her silk jumpsuit.

The smile is wide and unrelenting, like she can't stop it. But as quickly as it forms it falls away to a mock scowl. "You're late," she accuses.

The host has pulled out the fancy-looking wooden chair opposite Kiara. There's some kind of theatrics as the host tries to push it in at the same time as JJ sits down. He ends up perched on half a chair, glaring at a knife.

"Anything to drink, sir?"

"Um," he is thirty feet out to sea and floundering. "A beer?"

"Certainly, sir. Anything in particular?" At JJ's blank look, the host nods knowingly. "We'll go with the recommended."

There's acoustic music playing from hidden speakers, but it does nothing to assuage the silence as their host glides from the room.

"Who's Jacinda?" JJ asks eventually. The silence is overwhelming, all-consuming. Kiara with her feet tucked up beneath her and JJ feeling his armpits and lower back getting decidedly more damp.

He glances at the menu. Every other word is in French or simply unrecognisable. JJ squints to try and make the words make sense.

"She's the now ex-Prime Minister of New Zealand. The first woman to take maternity leave whilst in office, I think." At his look, Kiara drags a finger around the rim of the empty wine glass. "I have to use aliases. Otherwise they try and get up the stairs or they wait outside or…" it trails off, as though the options are too numerous to bother vocalising. "I run through inspirational women."

"That must hurt."

The laughter eases some tension in his shoulders. It's the same time as a server places a beer in front of him and a glass of red wine in front of Kiara. His beer is in some fancy crystal glass with a handle.

"Are you ready to order?" The server asks politely.

Kiara glances at JJ, who jerks his head.

"The ravioli," her voice lilts. "And the salad. Thank you."

The server nods, glances inquiringly at JJ.

He is a fish out of water. "Um. What's your favourite?"

Kiara smiles with half her mouth. The server blinks, before gleaning over with professional polish. "I would go for the ravioli, and then the beef."

"Cool. Yeah, that. Thanks."

"Any sides?" A pause. "Mashed potato, perhaps? And the vegetable medley?"

JJ wonders if he can kiss the server. "You read my mind."

"Excellent choice, sir."

"Why thank you. If it's not, me and you will be having words."

The server smiles slowly, agreeably. Delicately plucks the menus from the table and glides from the room once more.

"So you're still an asshole, even in public," Kiara determines.

JJ looks around the empty room. "This is public?"

Her smile drops, her shoulder tips. “My manager hasn’t vetted everyone in this restaurant, so about as close as it gets.”

“Has your manager vetted me?”

The wine glass rolls between her palms, the crimson liquid spinning with the motion. She takes a sip. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“I haven’t told her your name, so probably not.”

“Sarah might have.”

One eyebrow ticks up. “I doubt that.”

“But your manager knows you’ve been meeting with some weird local guy?”

“Yeah she - she was visiting for a bit, seeing how things were going. Saw me leaving. She’s - she’s really good, but. Yeah.”

JJ gulps some of the beer down. It’s cold, condensation dampening his palm. He wipes it on his slacks. “Must be nice, having someone organise your life.”

The hum is non-commital, vague. Her eyes flick over his t-shirt, his shoulders. He thinks they linger on his mouth. “I like your outfit.”

“Why thank you. Sarah helped, actually. Just turned up at the store.”

Kiara pauses mid-sip; swallows and places her glass slowly back on the table. She’s scrutinising him across the table, but their server glides back into the room with a knife on a silver tray. He replaces one of the knives next to JJ’s right hand and disappears again.

Kiara is still frowning across the table. “Sarah? You sure?”

“Blonde girl, making threats? I’m sure.”

“I didn’t ask her to like, check up on you or anything.”

“I think she’s just crazy all by herself.”

Kiara is frowning at the tabletop. Her fingers drum one by one, rhythmically, filed and painted into perfect crescents.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “Sarah is one of my best friends but she’s seen some shit, in the past.”

“With her brother?”

There’s a flattening of her lips. “I was never with with him. He was just - convenient. For publicity.”

“Huh.”

The wine glass spins. “Enough about me. What about your exes?”

“My exes?”

“Yeah - you get to read all about mine, or find them on Wikipedia. What about yours?”

“Uh, they’re pretty standard. Still friends.” Apart from one. “Kinda can’t escape them, on an island. Unless you’re a really good swimmer.”

Silence falls as their server glides into the room, donning a pair of white gloves and holding two plates. He places them down with a flourish, announcing each starter. He even says bon appétit without irony, picking up JJ’s empty glass.

A new beer appears in less than a minute. JJ gulps this one, too, between mouthfuls of ravioli. It comes with strands of herbs on each pasta parcel and a white sauce JJ thinks would be described as delicate. He thinks it’s a polite word for bland.

“Good?” Kiara dissects one piece with her fork, the epitome of poise. There’s no drops of sauce on the tablecloth between her plate and mouth. JJ wonders if that’s inherent or learnt.

“Yeah,” he agrees. Then, “is this supposed to taste of anything?”

“The sauce?”

“Yeah.”

“Well - yeah. Just take every element together, in one. One bite.”

It’s an effort to eat a whole ravioli in one bite, but he manages it. He can feel sauce smudged on his chin.

Kiara’s look is somewhere between disgust and amusement. It’s not territory he’s unfamiliar with.

“I meant like, one forkful. Like this.” Her fork dissects the ravioli, drags it delicately through the sauce and then places it on her tongue. JJ looks away and takes a gulp of beer. Tucks a fingertip under his collar and drags the material away as it threatens to close on his throat.

“Huh.” He imitates her action, tilts his head to consider the flavour palette or whatever the hell he’s supposed to be doing. It tastes marginally better than when he gets fancy with Kraft mac and cheese and throws a handful of green onions in there. Only marginally.

His gaze moves from his plate to Kiara, enough to catch a look. He wipes the sauce off his chin but the look doesn’t stop. “What?” he demands, no doubt giving her a view of half-chewed pasta. “Where else could it be?” he scrubs at his nose, his cheek with his thumb.

Kiara looks like she might be concentrating extremely hard on not blushing. “Nothing.” She takes another mouthful of pasta and seems to reconsider. “Just - you washed your hair.”

JJ swallows with some effort. “A gentleman always keeps his promises.”

“It looks good.”

It’s almost enough for him to inhale some of the fancy-ass beer through his nose and ruin the once crisp white tablecloth. Instead, he keeps drinking through the spluttering like a true trooper. “My hair?”

“Y’know,” she gestures with her fork. “The stuff growing out of your head.”

His eyes narrow somewhat. Her jumpsuit has a fancy neckline that leaves her shoulders bare. The skin seems to shimmer under the ambient lighting JJ thinks they’ve likely turned down especially for this occasion.

He wonders if anyone in this building knows who he is. Knows who he is and who he sits opposite. The flavourless sauce curdles on his tongue. He shovels the rest of it in, his fork landing in the bowl with a clatter that makes her look up from her glass, the slightest of a frown scrunching her face.

“Do you not like your hair?” she demands.

The hair in question is mussed, his fingers tugging at it until he reaches a knot and can go no further. He drops his hand to the table, shrugs a shoulder and toys with the replacement knife. Its blade is sharper and polished to a fine shine. JJ’s been a busboy before; he’s been a kitchen porter, polishing cutlery straight out of the washer, the metal bitingly hot and singeing fingertips.

“Have you ever had another job?” He can’t place her in a busy kitchen, curses and jostles running the fine line between friendly and bullying. How some thirty year old line cook could cuss you out one minute for forgetting to specify a bread type, knife aloft and too close for comfort, and supply you with alcohol the next.

He doubts she’s had calloused hands and saltine-caked skin from hauling lobster pots overboard. Not had to scrub her nails with a brush and eventually give in to the smell of the sea.

But then maybe even he’s forgotten that, since his dad’s insurance payout helped him open the store.

Kiara is shaking her head. A strand from the carefully curated chignon has slipped from its band and trails over the opposite shoulder. He stares at it.

“Just acting. The whole Disney thing from like - eleven I think?” Maybe there's something in his face, some derision. "My dad owned a restaurant, though. I used to sit in the kitchen when I was a kid. Before the move and everything else. Then it was auditions and homeschooling and flying over the country."

JJ frowns a little. "Homeschooling?"

"Well, yeah. To fit in with filming and stuff. You had tutors on the bigger sets, which was cool. But a lot."

Their plates are taken almost silently until JJ's elbow knocks into his. The cutlery rattles against the porcelain, then it's jerked out of reach before he can do more damage. He smiles an apology.

It's a carefully timed interlude before their mains are placed down.

Kiara peers interestedly at JJ’s steak. “That looks sous vide,” she muses.

“Sue’s what now?”

“Sous vide. It’s like a big water bath that you put meat in, so you can cook it at a consistent temperature.” At JJ’s look, she tilts her head. “I like a good cooking video as much as the rest of us.”

“You’re vegetarian.”

“I’m not eating it. TV isn’t that advanced.”

“Not yet.”

Dessert comes in a heart-shaped pot with two spoons. JJ stares at it with abject horror.

“Shit,” he says.

“No, that’s crème brûlée.”

The server whisks their plate away with the same efficiency. JJ makes sure to tell him that his choices were inspired. The server's cheeks pinken but he nods demurely and exited quickly.

Kiara Carrera watches him across the table.

There's no check, when they're finished. They just get brought their coats and then some man, the same one likely posted outside for the duration, follows them down the stairs and out onto the street. There's a car a few steps away, idling at the sidewalk. JJ stops abruptly as Kiara clambers in. The probably a bodyguard has to swerve to stop from barreling into him at his impressive march.

"JJ," Kiara says, glancing up the street. "Get in. We'll - we can drop you wherever you want."

There's always been a fucked up part of him that wants to say no to any request or demand, no matter how reasonable. But her eyes are wide and he wouldn't say they were overtly pleasing but they were pretty damn close.

He gets in the car.

It has tinted windows and a screen between them and the driver. Her probably a bodyguard climbs into the front, the car shifting.

It's quiet. The leather seats are buttery under his hands.

She asks, "where do you wanna go? I'll buzz it through." Like that's a normal thing to be able to do.

"Um," he stalls. And maybe he looks at her mouth and maybe he looks at the curl that's escaped the chignon and maybe he thinks of his hands loosening the rest-

"Are you open to suggestions?"

His head tilts. "Depends what they are."

"I've got very good coffee at my place." Her voice is quiet, wavering.

"Well," he says after several too long seconds. "I do like coffee. Decaff at this time of night though, right? Unless you have FroYo."

Her seatbelt is off and she's sliding across the smooth seats towards him and his brain gets stuck on that fact for a long moment. Just watches and stares in a way that is actually pretty fucking embarrassing.

She kisses him in the cocoon of the blacked out car, safe from prying eyes and minds. Licks into his mouth and straddles his knees and doesn't flinch as his hands rest on her waist, her hips, as they cradle her head.

She tastes of red wine and he tastes of beer and it's not a good combination, palette wise. It doesn't seem to matter. Nothing seems to matter until the polite throat clearing. It's hard to miss the door being opened by an amused looking man - JJ has to grip Kiara's hips to stop her tipping out onto the ground.

Kiara Carrera is living in some apartment with a sea view. At least, she assures him it’s a sea view. It's not the best view he's had all evening.

Her bed is beyond comprehension, her chest rising and falling.

"Sarah's convinced you're gonna fuck me and leave immediately, like some bucket list item. Thrill of the chase and all that."

He tries not to move his face too much and confirm that he had considered the very same. "Nah," he spreads his arms out, starfishing on the bed. "Your bed is better than mine. These sheets? Glorious. I'm betting a high thousands thread count."

The smile could be relieved or mildly amused or both. Kiara draws her bare legs up to her chest, loops her arms around them and rests her chin on her knees. "A bed sheet aficionado, are you?"

He half-lifts a hand. "I can tell quality." Then, as the realisation strikes him, he cracks one eyelid open to appraise her. "I can go."

Brown eyes widen momentarily. "What, am I to let a pretty little thing like you wander back across town unaccompanied?" There's a beat and then her limbs unfurl before she flips onto her stomach next to him. Arms folded beneath her head, cheek to the pillow so he gets the full benefit of her smile. "Out there be monsters."

It's said as a joke, but she dines in private rooms in restaurants and meets people on benches in the gloom and hides behind an armour of oversized sunglasses and caps pulled over her forehead.

The smile fades, replaced with a searching look. “Stay.”

Even he’s not enough of a jerk to make a poor attempt at a joke. Just uses two fingers to push the pillow down so his gaze isn’t obscured. Wrinkles his nose at her. “Okay.”

He stays for a night which turns into two. Returns home in one of her oversized t-shirts with a hickey on his neck. Matilda sends various selfies from the store so he presumes it's still standing.

John B corners him in the kitchen of the Chateau, looking wounded. "We need a boys night," he proclaims with vigour. "I barely recognise you anymore."

Pope, John B and JJ end up tangled on the pullout John B refuses to replace.

“I’m dating her,” JJ points at the screen as Kiara comes on it. It’s a younger version of her; a version without the light laughter lines at the corners of her eyes that crease when she finds him ridiculous. Or maybe it’s the stage make-up or the camera. He prefers the pillow-creased, crumpled version of Kiara.

John B scoffs and shoves a cupped handful of popcorn at his open mouth like he’s a schoolgirl clandestinely feeding their favourite pony. “And the Pope shits in the woods.”

“Hey,” Pope protests. “That was one time-”

JJ tosses a piece of popcorn into the air and catches it between his teeth. Waits patiently for John B to applaud briefly. “I am.”

“Sure you are,” Pope says disbelievingly, opting for a delicate option of placing the popcorn piece by piece onto his tongue.

JJ: thank god u abandoned the bob your hair is an absolute triangle

Kie: Have you never heard of a wig?

JJ: u mean someone did this to u
on purpose?
mamma mia

Kie: Fuck off I’ve seen your eighth grade hair
Absolute travesty

“I mean, we totally realise you’re dating someone.” John B is like a dog with a bone, sometimes. JJ wishes someone had taught him at an earlier age not to resource guard.

“Yeah,” JJ agrees, locking his phone and dropping it to the couch. “Kiara.”

“What’s her surname?” Pope asks suspiciously.

“Carrera.”

Pope sighs mournfully. “That one’s on me. The bar was too low.”

“You’re acting all weird and secretive and you’ve been showering like, once a day, even if you’ve been in the sea,” John B continues thoughtfully. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed my conditioner disappearing and the frequent washing of clothes. Pope - we’ve been through more water in a month than we ever used to in, like, a year.”

“Fine.” JJ tosses more popcorn into the air and catches a solid twenty five per cent of it. “Don’t believe me.”

“Oh,” Pope reassures him. “We don’t.”

"But it has to be someone," John B decides. "And I will find out who."

Considering it took a month for John B to notice JJ had smashed his favourite mug, JJ isn't too concerned.

But he does mention it when they're lounging on the couch in her apartment. "My friends think I'm dating someone."

Kiara is trying and failing to balance a sour patch on her nose. JJ snatches it from her skin, licks a side, then sticks it firm. Kiara pulls a face.

"How astute of them," she removes the candy from her nose and places it delicately on her tongue. Maybe it's his imagination, but the sour patch gummy lingers for a moment before it disappears, clacking against her teeth.

He wants to say are we dating?

He says, "be awkward to read that you are dating." She eyes him, then, from the bottom of her eyes as she tilts her head back to balance more candy.

It's clumsy and something about the interaction makes him want to snatch the candy from her stupid nose, from her grip. Eat it all out of spite.

She says, "you won't, read that. It's just you." Then, at his look, "for now, anyway. I don't need anything else to sully my good name."

"Good name? I find the double 'C' quite jarring, actually."

She laughs and launches a sour patch kid at his face. He snaps at it like a dog might do for a frisbee. "Fuck off."

"If only you were well-known enough to go by a single name. Like Zendaya, maybe."

"I hope you choke and die," Kiara coos sweetly.

"Maybe initials, like the cool kids."

"Oh, be quiet, Jonathan James," it's mocking.

The idea is unbidden but he can't shake it. "Maybe you should meet them."

"Hm?"

"My friends."

The frown is barely there, but he's pretty good at barely there emotions. "Yeah. Maybe."

He launches a candy at her chin.

Sometimes he can forget the whole movie star thing. Yeah, her apartment is a hundred times nicer than the Chateau and yeah she buys him things and he has to try and not chafe at the casual carelessness of her spending.

They make brunch and she wears his new sweater and he is content to be holed up in an apartment listening to her talking about her family or her career and which movie stars are dicks.

She films most days. JJ goes to the store or goes surfing or humours John B's latest historical obsession. Draws ironic comments all over Matilda's carefully created spreadsheet for the lock-up procedure.

Filming is due to wrap up in four weeks according to some stan account. And yeah, maybe his social media algorithm is throwing up Kiara Carrera more than it did before. JJ is sure Pope could tell him the exact reasoning for the frequency of the posts, but even that isn't lost on JJ.

He's sometimes tempted to post her to his story. Because they have pictures, her cheek pressed to his. Videos of them after hours in his store with the shutters drawn and the store's crackling speakers working overtime. Of her sat on her bed, her nose wrinkled at him.

She doesn't follow him on Instagram off her main account. Not that he posts much, anyway.

Kiara Carrera dominates every TV screen, his phone screen and every other thought.

It's Cleo that eventually corners him in the Chateau on a drizzly Monday morning. JJ is staring into the backyard wondering if filming is going ahead today, considering the weather. It's not giving dreamy summer romcom. Maybe he'll get a text soon and they can have a rare whole day that's theirs, rather than a stolen evening or a morning Kiara isn't required on set. He checks his phone even though he knows it hasn't buzzed and sighs at the lack of notifications.

He's ADHD to shit, okay? She's just his most recent obsession. Most recent dopamine high. It'll wear off.

"Oh, my God," Cleo's voice drips with sarcasm. "Hi, sorry, have we met? Are you the fabled second roommate?" She looks mock-thoughtful. "GG, is it?"

JJ grins at her. "I wasn't aware I'd been replaced."

Cleo leans her hip against the counter. "Everyone's replaceable, honey. Mark my words." She gestures at the Chateau vaguely behind her. "Come to help set up." She frowns at his blank stare. "For tonight." The frown turns into a scowl. "You joking? Pope's birthday!"

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah, oh shit! It's in the group and I told Matilda to put it on your work calendar too."

JJ texts Matilda: did u put popes bday on the calendar

Matilda: woops
just checked, it's today
just give him another beach globe

"Does he, uh, ever mention a beach globe?" JJ questions innocently.

"Do not get him more shit," Cleo demands. "I already have to clear shit out when he's not looking."

"And tonight we are…" he looks at her hopefully.

"Well, you'll still continue to be fucking useless, so there's that." Cleo ushers him from the porch and inside. "You can help with decorations," she demands. "John B says they're in the study."

"Yeah, yeah," JJ dismisses. "Decorations. For the… big party?"

Cleo glances at him from where she's trying to coerce the pullout into pushing back in. "It's Pope. It'll be the usual. Good takeout and no one allowed to tell him to shut up about his hyperfixations. And his annual birthday joint he’ll pretend he’s been bullied into." The pullout bangs into place and Cleo's hands find her hips, her gaze severe. JJ thinks she's wearing one of his shirts. "You have weed, right?"

JJ thinks of the joint he took to Kiara's last night and smoked in her kitchen whilst they baked cookies. Kiara called it the bake off.

"Of course," he lies smoothly.

Colourful and tattered banners are pulled from a battered cardboard box which is eventually located on top of JJ's wardrobe. They pin the banners up, then blow up an inordinate amount of balloons with confetti in them. JJ forgets about the confetti and accidentally swallows a piece, despite Cleo's warnings.

"Girls are good at birthdays," he comments idly. Cleo is rooting out flour and sugar from the cupboards, likely left over from her last baking venture. She makes a rum and ginger cake that almost stings his tongue but is beloved by all.

"No, y'all just feral." The flour bag thumps to the counter. "You should bring your girl."

JJ chokes on his tongue. "Hngh?" Maybe Kiara's paranoia has rubbed off on him - but they've been so careful. He knows all the back routes to her apartment. Her driver's hire car changes on a steady rotation. Anonymity is hard to keep track of.

"You're obviously dating someone. You're all," there's a vague gesture with her hand. "You turned down surfing."

"I have responsibilities," he mutters defensively. Then, because she has her back to him and is half in a cupboard, he says, "it's Kiara Carrera."

The responding snort echoes into the cupboard. “Sure it is.”

“Nah, for real.”

“Mhm.”

JJ wonders whether checking his phone again makes him a simp or a stalker.

Cleo either notices the silence or decides to outwardly show a rare glimmer of empathy because she emerges from the cupboard to peer at him, eyes softening. “Hey. You know we don’t care who you date, right? If they’re male, female, anything in between. Whoever they are.” She pauses for a moment. “Shit, are they Republican?”

JJ nods gravely. “Kiara Carrera did wear that red baseball cap once that everyone photoshopped MAGA onto.”

The empathy evaporates with an eyeroll. “Okay, rude boy. You win. Like you could fucking date a movie star on an island this small without anyone finding out.”

“She is on this island,” he points out evenly.

“Doesn’t mean you’re dating her.”

"True, but it helps."

Cleo looks like she's debating launching the half bottle of rum at his head rather in the cake batter. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly cool, amirite?"

Her eyes roll elaborately. "Whatever you say. Just make sure you're here at seven, with weed, with or without your beau."

He sends the text after thinking of every possible outcome and rereading it five times. my friends are having a gathering tonight. like, four people. you wanna join?

Then he stares at his cracked phone screen for an inordinate amount of time. It doesn't show as read, nor do three bubbles appear.

After twenty minutes he types, you can bring Sarah.

It's a detour to his cousin Ricky's house. He's not in, but JJ uses the key from the lock box and slams two twenties on the kitchen counter in exchange for a plump baggie.

He checks his phone again outside as the rain patters gently onto the roof of his truck.

Kie: filming has wrapped up early
Come over?

JJ: gathering?? its for the pope

Kie: maybe

It pisses him off. He shoves his phone in his pocket, truck wheels spinning as he pulls from Ricky's driveway. The phone stays there as he parks in front of the store, wheels on the sidewalk. Matilda looks up as he almost storms in, kicking the door closed behind him.

"Quiet today," Matilda updates him. "Although I did sell a board."

JJ is instantly wary. "Who to?"

"Um, some guy who said he knows you. Isaac, I think?"

Isaac knows what he's doing. JJ relaxes and gnaws on the skin around his thumbnail. Leans against the counter and stares unseeingly at his store.

"You seeing Kiara tonight?" Matilda asks innocently.

JJ grunts around his thumb. "Got Pope's birthday."

"Oh, yeah." There's a pause. "I wrote it on the calendar, actually."

"Yeah, about three weeks too late."

"I think we have some beach globes out back." Matilda is undeterred. "Doing anything exciting?"

"Just drinks and takeout and stuff."

"Kiara going?" Her hands fly up in surrender as he glares at her sideways.

JJ tears at his nail with his teeth. "She said maybe. Filming is cancelled today, so."

"You should ask Sarah."

"I told her to ask her."

"No, you should ask Sarah."

The thumb stills as JJ considers. He takes out his phone which is still notification free. Opens up Instagram, where Sarah had added him three weeks ago. Swipes to her DMs.

JJ: got a gathering thing at my friends tonight. like 4 people. super confidential.

After a moment, he types again. Free booze and I'll buy your takeout.

Sarah: Are any of your friends hot and single?

JJ thinks of John B. Yeah.

Sarah: I'll see what I can do.

He gets another text, twenty minutes later, whilst he's trying to batten together the broken shelves.

Kie: Only if you pick me up.

JJ: see you at 6.30

Matilda is triumphant at JJ's buoyed mood. "Told you," she preens. "That girl, she gets shit done." There's more than a little hero worship, but JJ can't deny her methods.

His truck rolls in to the parking lot of the fancy ass apartment block at 6.45 after a minor argument with the concierge. JJ opts for ringing in lieu of going to the apartment, to try and head off the risk of being roped into staying in.

Sarah picks up. "You're late. She's just changing her shirt."

The Juul crackles on the inhalation, sounding suspiciously like it might run out of battery. JJ taps it against the wheel. "Okay. What's the vibes?"

"Panic," Sarah summarises shortly. "Sure we don't want Kie's driver?" Then, without moving the phone from her face, Sarah yells, "hurry the FUCK up, Carrera!" She addresses JJ again. "Be down in two minutes." The phone goes dead.

The Juul hisses as he tries not to stare too hard at the doors to Kie's block. Tries too hard and is distracted by a water mark on the roof of the truck, missing the pair emerging from the door. Catches sight of them halfway across the parking lot, Sarah distinctly shepherding Kiara before her.

Kiara is wearing some sort of wide legged flowy pants, clinched at the waist. The crop top is thin strapped and short, showing a band of skin around her waist. The gold necklace is luminous against her skin. There's a beaded necklace, too, multicolored and bright. Likely filched from either his store or Sarah's costume department.

JJ likes her hair in braids, but he likes it as it is now, too. Down and splayed over her shoulders, curled and bouncing. There's gold in the corner of her eyes which is likely Sarah's doing.

JJ blinks once, twice. The passenger side door is yanked open and Sarah demands, "get in," whilst jostling at Kiara's back.

JJ says, "only if you want to." And then, "hey." And then, "you look incredible."

"She's getting in," Sarah reiterates. She looks good too, in a red jumpsuit with cutouts at the side and her hair all twisted onto her head. "I did not handstitch those hems for you to back out now."

JJ glances at Kiara apologetically. But although she looks like she wants to hide, all wide-eyed and Bambi-esque, she moves and climbs into the truck, hauling a suspiciously champagne-shaped gift bag.

"I only had Taittinger," she frets. The truck rocks with the force of the door being slammed but to her credit, her eyes don't waver from his. Not even as Sarah yanks open the back door.

"That's still gonna be the fanciest shit he's ever had in his whole life," JJ assures his maybe-girlfriend. "And this is gonna be okay. If it's not, get Tommy to come grab you."

Kiara nods quickly. "It's gonna be fine." It almost sounds true.

Sarah ridicules his sand covered truck, makes fun of his still damp wetsuit draped over the headrest, and then threatens him with a rusty scalpel if there aren't any real prospects.

"Well," she clarifies, as Kiara gives her a look in the rearview mirror, "maybe not a full castration. Maybe, like, a tickle. Honestly," her head comes uncomfortably close to his wetsuit as she throws it back with a sigh. "I'm just glad to be out of the fucking house."

Sarah cracks open a seltzer, takes a sip and hands it to Kiara. JJ takes an extra few turns until the can is drained, then eases up the Chateau's dirt driveway and cuts the engine.

Kiara's demeanour changes. She goes from Kie to Kiara Carrera. Her shoulders go back, her chin tilts upwards. Her mouth tightens, ready to tilt into a gracious smile.

Sarah frowns at her back. Catches JJ's eye in the rearview mirror and continues frowning.

Kiara Carrera says, "let's do this!"

The approach to the Chateau all goes well until a seagull shits on Sarah Cameron's hair. If JJ didn't know better, it's almost like the bastard swept up from the Chateau's roof shingles and then swooped down and took direct aim. It hits the crown of her head first, then drips down into the blonde strands.

Sarah shrieks as the seagull flaps off in feathery triumph. She yells, "motherfucking land rats!" and she's storming up the steps to the front door. Yanking it open and disappearing inside. It's all JJ and Kiara can do but half-run after her, JJ yanking the door open, hand splayed on the wood so Kiara can duck under his arm and into the room.

The living room is already in a Sarah Cameron induced disarray. "My fucking hair," Sarah bemoans.

It's Pope and Cleo who have frozen, Pope with a hand and mouthful of Cheetos. He has Cheeto dust on his mouth.

Cleo's gaze goes from Sarah to JJ and finally to Kiara.

"What the fuck?" Cleo demands.

"Bird shit, in my hair," Sarah reiterates. "Right in it. Everywhere. I need to wash it and I need to do it now." She whirls around and points a finger at Kiara, who flinches minutely. "Did you bring shampoo?"

"I did not bring shampoo," Kiara confirms.

Sarah's hands are thrown in the air. "I need shampoo!"

Pope is a statue. Cleo is too, gaping at Kiara. JJ is tempted to throw her out the door and follow quickly afterwards.

He opts for stepping in front of her, addressing Sarah as casually as he can manage. "We have dish soap."

Sarah makes a noise in her throat. "Dish soap? I don't pay for highlights to defile them with fucking dish soap - you!" It's directed at John B, who's emerged into the room and is looking around with a perplexed smile. "Do you have shampoo?"

"Hi," John B beams. He's marching across the room, hand outstretched. "I'm John B. Are you and JJ…?"

Sarah's laugh is biting. "Fuck no." John B's smile dims somewhat, a little reproach creeping into his gaze. JJ can't help but be a little endeared. "That's her," Sarah gestures in Kiara's vague direction. "But do you have shampoo? Once more, I have birdshit in my hair. Do you have shampoo?"

"It's also on your dress," John B points out helpfully, tucking his unshaken hand behind his back. "I think we have Head and Shoulders?" Sarah addressed, John B peers around her and JJ to Kiara. JJ's jaw sets. "Hi! I'm John B," he greets.

"Hi," it's like she's biting back a laugh. "I'm-"

"Has anyone ever told you you look like that actress? Y'know the one," he looks to JJ for support. "The drugs one? Spider woman?"

Pope makes a noise like he's swallowed his tongue. Cleo thumps him on the back.

"Tom Holland?" JJ supplies. John B rolls his eyes theatrically.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. I'll just go help your… friend. Just this way-"

Sarah storms after John B, his babbling fading as they turn down the hallway and vaguely towards the bathroom.

Silence falls in the living room, Pope's eyes bugging out of his head. Cleo blinks rapidly, as though she can jerk herself awake.

JJ crosses the room in three strides, grabs Pope's cheeto-encrusted hand with his and pumps it vigorously. Couples it with some heavy handed back slaps. "Hey, happy birthday, Popey boy. What's it now, 60?"

Kiara's followed, the giftbag in her hand. "Happy birthday! Sorry it's nothing big." The gift bag swings from the fingers of Kiara's proffered hand, the embossed card glinting in the dimmed light. One second, two seconds.

Cleo eventually reaches out and takes the bag. "Um, thank you. You didn't have to. Pope is notoriously difficult to buy for. I mean - I got him socks. Again."

Kiara nods. "You can never have enough socks. I would love to have a fresh pair everyday."

JJ tries to resist the urge to slap Pope around the head. He's still fucking staring. "You never wear socks," he mutters to Kiara contemptuously. "You always steal mine."

Kiara's grin is mostly relieved. Her shoulder presses against his arm, leans there.

He wants to bundle her to his truck and apologise until his voice is hoarse.

"They're more comfortable," Kiara responds primly. There's a shriek from down the hallway, quickly followed by some John B soothing. JJ shares a look with Kiara. "I will just go - check on Sarah." The smile is press perfect, flawless. "If you just excuse me."

Cleo waits for Kiara to be out of earshot before rounding on him. "JJ. What the fuck?"

"What?"

"You've pulled up with Kiara fucking Carrera-"

"Mhm."

"Mhm? Fucking mhm?"

JJ frowns at her wrath. "What do you want me to say?"

"Maybe a little fucking warning-"

"I literally told you all. More than once."

"I didn't think you were telling the truth!"

JJ shrugs. "Sounds like a you issue."

Pope defrosts. "Oh, my God," he shakes his head, like a dog removing water from its ear. "This is the best birthday present ever. Like - the weed is pretty good, don't get me wrong. But Kiara Carrera? Damn, Maybank."

The air leaves the room. Both Cleo and JJ turn on a still chuckling Pope mutinously.

"Bro, watch yourself-" Cleo snaps.

"What's that supposed to mean?" JJ demands. "A present?"

"Like, a meet and greet. Y'know. Probably smaller than she's used to but, yeah. You've outdone yourself."

"You think I've paid her to be here? For you?" The words are glass shards in his throat.

Sense apparently revisits Pope. He looks to Cleo for support. "Well. Um. Yeah? I mean - it's my birthday. And you know how much I like her - work-"

Cleo looks two words away from snapping the top off the champagne. "Her work, yeah?"

"It's not a fucking meet and greet," JJ hisses. "Apart from maybe wanting my girlfriend to meet my fucking friends and wanting them to greet her rather than staring like she's a fucking zoo animal-"

Pope laughs. Cleo stares hard at JJ's face. His hands twitch, at his sides. He wants to tug at his hair until the roots give way. He wants to bury his knuckles into Pope's face and obliterate the disbelieving look from it.

Instead he turns away, fingers flexing. Pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes and takes a breath in.

"Hey, wise man," Cleo soothes. "He doesn't mean it. No, Pope, shut it, or I'll shove that cake where the sun don't shine. We're just surprised, is all. But we're cool. It's cool."

Pope's foot must get stamped on, or he gets pinched, or preferably both. "Sorry, sorry," he yelps. "She's just - it's just a lot. But yes. We can be cool. So cool."

"Wash your hands and prepare to act normal," Cleo instructs. "And if you're anything more than normal Pope weird, so help me God."

JJ's eyes slide open to shoot Cleo a grateful look. She nods at him over her shoulder as Pope is ushered to the kitchen.

He still hears the whispered, "fucking Kiara Carrera, babe!" But decides to leave that fight for now.

Mostly because Kiara fucking Carrera is making her way back down the hall, led by a still enthused John B. JJ prods the speaker on the chipped dining table into action to try and seem like he wasn't waiting anxiously for her to return and trying to restrain himself from decking his second best friend front and center.

He glances over at the procession - John B leading the merry band, Kiara second and Sarah at the back. She's towel drying her hair, wearing sweats and a Kildare High t-shirt.

Kiara shoots JJ a surreptitious thumbs up, then drifts to his side in a would-be casual way. If he didn't track her every move or something.

"JJ, I was just giving them a tour and telling - God, I'm so sorry. What's your name again?" John B looks at Kiara politely.

"Kiara-"

"Oh, cool name - about your vendetta against Mr Stephenson in third grade."

"The man's name was Stephen Stephenson. He was asking for it."

Kiara's eyebrows raise, her mouth twisting upwards. He has to look away from the look on her face and back to the speaker, which has finally connected to his beat-up Samsung.

"You need a new phone," Kiara comments idly, her hip leaning against the table. "Do you know how unnerving it is to be texting green bubbles?"

"It's retro."

"Sure it is."

"Well, sorry for not being sucked into the Apple must-have capitalist spiral." He jabs Spotify open and selects the Chateau playlist. It opens with London's Burning by The Clash, which John B whoops at.

"Let's not pretend your shitty phone is a communist statement."

There are responses, curled behind his teeth. About money and needs and how he doesn't know what to do with either.

"Sure, Ms Socialist. You wanna get a glass of your fancy-ass champagne and maintain the ruse?"

Her elbow bumps against his sharply. A flash of teeth. "Don't mind if I do."

Pope is bent over his phone in the kitchen. Waves JJ off when he asks if he can open what is technically Pope's gift. It takes four cupboards before JJ finds two dusty wine glasses, into which he pours a generous measure. Grabs a beer from the fridge.

"We're thinking the Wreck," Pope doesn't look up from his phone. "For takeout. But I don't know whether to get the hot chicken burger or that fish thing-"

"Fish thing," JJ agrees.

"It's like, twenty dollars."

"Bro. It's your birthday. Push the boat out."

"Hm." Pope continues his background research. "They did have that chicken and mango thing on special for a bit."

"Popey."

"JJ."

"Just get your usual and stop fucking around. Or the fish thing. Or get both."

"I guess. Will, um, Kiara be okay with the Wreck?"

"Yeah, of course. She loves the fries." Pope nods, still weeks deep on what looks like Instagram, evaluating his choices. "She's not some, like, I don't fucking know. She still eats, y'know?"

The scrolling stops. Pope's shoulders are tight, but he doesn't look up. "Yeah. I know. I'm gonna be - cool and shit. I was just… taken by surprise." He does look up, then. Eyes wide and earnest. "I'm - I didn't mean it, before. It's just kinda the last thing I expected to happen."

The wine glasses clink as JJ gathers them up. "Yeah. Me and you both, pal."

Sarah and Kiara both take a glass. They've been coerced into pulling out the dining table and displacing all the accumulated junk. John B commences with setting up the red solo cups in formation, filling each with an inch of beer.

"JJ! Kiara has never played beer pong. Isn't that a goddamn travesty?" John B spills beer on the table but slams a solo cup over the spillage. "What you think? Girls vs. boys?"

"Newcomers vs old timers," JJ proposes quickly, noticing Kiara's snatched glance. "Me, Kie and Sarah vs you guys."

Pope has drifted from the kitchen and Cleo from likely stealing a cigarette and denying all knowledge of it. "Make sure you place your order," Pope prompts, looking anywhere but at Sarah and Kiara. He curls an arm around Cleo's shoulders, who swats at his hand.

There's a careful distance between them. One that makes him want to apologise for making her do this. Kiara flails at the first few goes of beer pong, but then settles into her rhythm. Sarah is overly competitive considering her general lack of skills. JJ nails enough shots to boost his ego.

There's a moment when everyone's distracted and Kiara jostles his elbows and says, "you're good. Can this be a career, maybe? Is there a league?"

He tries not to focus on the fact that it's the first time she's touched him in over an hour.

The food arrives and they sit and eat scattered throughout the Chateau. Kiara guards her fries with her life, but he manages to grab a handful.

"So, Kiara," John B is keen to earn a participation badge. "What do you do?"

Sarah freezes, a fry halfway to her mouth. Her eyes narrow.

"Um." Kiara dabs daintily at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "I'm a - an actress."

"Oh, that's so cool," John B enthuses. JJ doesn't know if it's wilful or blissful ignorance, but finds himself loving his best friend all the same. "And Sarah, you are…?"

"In wardrobe and makeup." The fry trembles in the air, then completes its journey as she comes to a decision.

"That's so sick. I think if I could have any job, it would be in that industry." He chews on his burger, deliberating. Waiting.

Kiara bites. "Oh yeah?"

"Oh, yeah, writing, maybe. Scripts. Dialogue. The whole thing." He sighs wistfully. "Words. That's all any man needs."

"And water," JJ says, like a dick.

"Food, too," Pope chimes up. "And oxygen. Warmth. Emotional support. Did you know loneliness can speed up brain degradation?"

“Sex,” Cleo adds.

John B frowns. “I don’t think that’s, like, a requirement for living.”

JJ snorts. “You would know.”

The frown turns on him, full force. “Hey now, that is a choice-”

“Yeah, but not yours-”

“JJ,” John B’s voice wavers somewhat. “We have company.”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Sarah drawls. “Please, continue to regale us with how you’re involuntarily celibate. If only there was some snappy, shorter name for that.”

JJ catches the grin on Kiara’s face before she demolishes a handful of fries.

The Wreck’s detritus gets smushed into a somewhat overfull trash can. JJ produces the birthday joint, which Cleo quickly takes control over. They drift to the porch, cicadas loud through the screen door.

Kiara lingers at the back of the group. JJ touches her elbow and tries not to think about how they’ve been orbiting each other all evening, but never in the immediate vicinity. “Hey,” he says lowly. “Want a tour? Then - if you’re lucky - you can meet Barbara.”

Kiara glances at Sarah. The blonde has stolen the joint from Cleo and is laughing at something she’s said, the screen door muffling the joke.

His room looks so much worse, now he’s seeing it through her eyes. The photographs hastily tacked to the walls to try and claim it back from Big John. The drawers he distinctly remembers scooping clothes back into and slamming shut - somehow they’re ajar, shirt sleeves and pant legs spilling from within. The swim shorts drying on the windowsill, the window cranked open.

The bed is a double at the most. But the sheets are soft and freshly laundered - a rare flash of forethought which struck that morning. They’re line-dried and will smell of the island and the sea.

“It’s not much.” It’s no marble-glossed apartment with quartz worktops and a balcony they rarely use.

Kiara touches a fingertip to the collection of things on his dresser. The mostly empty bottle of aftershave. The grinder Pope, Cleo and John B clubbed together to buy him for his birthday. It has the coordinates for his shop on, which is extremely unsubtle, should he lose it. There are shells and receipts and reels of paper from the card machine, unfurling from their core.

The dusk light softens the sharp lines of the room. Makes the wooden headboard look almost farmhouse chic. Makes the shell collection scattered on his bedside table look almost purposeful.

Her back’s to him. “No it’s - it’s great.” Her finger nudges the grinder, the discarded filters. “I didn’t do college or anything so this is - this is kinda how I imagined it would be. Living with your friends and stuff.”

“You’ve seen them. They’re dumb as shit. And I never did college either. Heard it ain’t all that.”

When she turns, she's holding the grinder and some papers. JJ rolls his eyes before extracting the slightly less full baggy from his pocket.

Maybe he shows off a little as he rolls. His skill set is limited, comparatively. It's a case of taking the wins where he can find them.

Kiara is watching intently as he licks the paper to seal the joint. Her gaze flicks away when he meets it. "There's a van outside."

"Yeah, the Twinkie." At her look, he shrugs a shoulder. "We really liked Twinkies."

"Is she like, a full van-life van?"

"Nah. More like barely any seats there. We keep saying we should convert her but," he shrugs again as he roots for a lighter. "The gearbox is tanked and it takes forever to find the parts and do it up, y'know."

They're sitting side by side on the closest thing he still has to a childhood bed, passing a joint back and forth. He can hear the sputtering speaker, protesting at how far away he's taken his phone. And beyond that - Cleo's sardonic tone, John B's unleashed laugh.

"Hey," he says, as Kiara Carrera breathes out smoke and looks at him curiously. "Do you wanna meet Barbara?"

The rest of them have gathered back inside, John B trying to rally an interest in flip cup. JJ promises they’ll join them on the way back in as they sidle past, Kiara’s hand in his. He doesn’t want to let go - doesn’t know how to, if he’s being honest.

Barbara knows the sight of a beer bottle, or maybe the sight of JJ. The light has settled and there’s just the backlight of the Chateau, spilling out over the back yard. The water murmurs at the base of the dock, whispering a soft backing track that undercuts Nelly. Cleo must have control of the speaker.

JJ says, “hey girl,” and kneels in the dirt. Barbara meanders towards him with feigned indifference, head bobbing. Kiara keeps a respectful distance as JJ tilts the beer bottle for the chicken to dip her beak into.

“This is… Barbara?”

“Hell yeah.” JJ runs a crooked finger down Barbara’s neck and the plume of feathers. “My main woman.”

Kiara steps closer and Barbara clucks gently, her head tilting as she scrutinises the newcomer. A step closer and Barbara’s nerves fray; she scatters, squawking indignantly.

“Give her some mealworms tomorrow, for breakfast. She’ll be yours then.”

“Mealworms. Sounds delicious.”

“Full of protein, good for their coat,” he realises the sarcasm a second too late, still in the dirt, scrutinising the brood. “You can always join them, too.”

He risks a glance over his shoulder and catches a smile which almost pins him in the dirt. But it doesn’t and he gets up, wiping a hand across his mouth before taking a sip of beer. Kiara's nose wrinkles at him but then she's stepping closer, in the gloom. His free hand finds her waist and she leans up in the now familiar way, mouth finding his.

It's slow and almost damn sweet. Their foreheads rest together and they breathe the same air. "Stay."

She nods once, twice, presses a chaste kiss to his mouth.

Something eases in his chest and the floodwater recedes. He can lace their fingers together as they embark on flip cup and then another joint, this time inside as everyone's too lazy to move outside. Cut two slices of the rum cake and share it from one plate. Kiara's squished onto the unpulled pull out, half on his leg, half draped over the arm as she debates with Cleo about the representation or lack thereof in Hollywood.

He sneaks a hand under the hem of her crop top and sweeps circles with his thumb.

Pope falls asleep for the fifth time and Cleo declares that they'll leave. There's a chorus of happy birthday! and one impromptu outburst of for he's a jolly good fellow which slowly peters out as no one joins in with John B. JJ hugs Pope, slapping him on the back with vigor that only vaguely verges on being violent.

Kiara shakes his hand and JJ swallows his snort.

They stay up a little longer, but then Sarah slumps against the pullout and waves a hand in an effective dismissal. John B offers to find her covers and pillows and convert the pull out, so JJ ushers Kiara into the bathroom.

"You gotta take the opportunities when you can," he explains as he offers her his toothbrush.

The bed is smaller than the one at her apartment but here they can not only just see the sea on the horizon but they can hear the marsh, hear the birds, smell the salt. It's home and yeah, maybe it disconcerts him how quickly she slots right into it.

She's the first one awake, leaning over him in his Kildare High t-shirt that he maybe chose on purpose. Her hair tickles his stomach.

It's a lazy morning. One which has him shirtless in the back yard with a mug full of mealworms. Kiara expresses her distaste and wonders aloud whether there's a difference between the mealworms mug and the general use coffee ones.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to," JJ advises solemnly as he unlatches the chicken run's wire and wood door. It's his favourite part of the day, pulling on the pulley system to open the coop. The chickens coo and cluck in anticipation as they make their way down the ridges ramp and into the run.

"Good morning, ladies," JJ greets. "Another bright day, just for you. And hey, haven't we got a treat in store!" He gestures at Kiara, who's just in his t-shirt and he thinks panties. He hopes. Or maybe he doesn't. He doesn't know how to think or hope anymore. "You gotta get lower - they're not gonna perch on your arm. Yes, down," he instructs. "They're like, a foot tall."

Warily, Kiara squats in the dirt with the mug outstretched. Her face is scrunched with concentration as the chickens eye her. It's Joan who breaks ranks first, bustling over with authority. Kiara's face changes into wonder as they peck vigorously at the mealworms, as Barbara struts in and packs Eunice and there's some wing flapping and a minor back and forth. Kiara glances at him in concern.

"Where do you think the term pecking order came from?" He points out. He hasn't verified that fact, but it sounds correct enough.

Eventually the level of mealworms is too low for them to reach, so Kiara upends the mug and straightens up. JJ steps up behind her as the chickens mill around their feet and she leans back against him as his arms encircle her waist. Her head tilts as he presses a kiss to the nape of her neck, then nudges his nose into her jaw and presses a kiss there, too. He can feel rather than see her smile as she presses her hips backwards, as his hand trails upwards over the Kildare High logo-

"Hey, Kiara!" It's loud and brash and entirely unwelcome. "Who's your friend?"

She shuts down. He can feel it. He's already moving - spinning, his arm around her waist and shielding her with his body. She's bare legged and barefoot and now bare to the world, to the man with his telescopic lens which is entirely redundant given how fucking close he is. Around the side of the Chateau, laws be damned.

JJ stands between them, remembers some rudimentary procedure for paparazzi and flips him off so any picture is unsellable. Or maybe they'll just blur him out. He doesn't fucking know.

"You're on private fucking land - get the fuck out of here."

It's an oily smirk to match the oily hair and JJ wonders if the brief stint in jail for assault is worth it. He's his own boss, anyway.

He takes a step forward but Kiara's hand lands on his bare shoulder. "Don't." It's cold and blank and empty and awful. He stills immediately.

"Does Raphael know about this?"

JJ closes his eyes.

The porch door swings open and John B emerges, looking at JJ and Kiara curiously. Then he follows their gaze to the intruder and he changes, drawing himself up, squaring his shoulders and his jaw.

"Yo," he snaps. "This is private property."

His voice draws our Sarah, her phone clutched in her hand. She immediately starts filming, arm outstretched but steady.

The photographer has dropped his camera, is looking at John B and Sarah descending from the porch. Notices the phone camera and makes a rudimentary effort to conceal his identity by pulling up the hood of his grey hoodie.

"You're breaching so many laws right now," Sarah's voice is low as she stalks towards him.

JJ uses the reprieve to glance behind him, jerk his head towards the house. Keeps himself between Kiara and the photographer as they retreat to the house - not quite running, but close as damn to it.

"This is not the end of this," is Sarah's low promise before JJ yanks the door closed behind them so the Chateau falls silent.

She does not look at him. Just walks down the hallways to his bedroom, where the curtains are still drawn.