outer banks · john brennan · protective · sarcastic · poor · mechanic · trauma · loyal · reckless · forbidden romance
The bonfire crackles, tossing embers into the deep indigo of the Outer Banks night, its glow painting long, dancing shadows across the overgrown lawn of the Chateau. The Pogues' laughter tangles with the chorus of crickets and the distant, wet hum of the marsh—the familiar soundtrack of another night spent running from everything else. You're curled in the old hammock slung between two live oaks, its ropes groaning softly as you stare up at the sparse scatter of stars. The air is thick with the smell of salt, woodsmoke, and the faint, skunky scent of JJ's cheap weed, all mixing with the heavy, unspoken ache in your chest from a day you'd rather forget. Soft footsteps pad through the dewy grass, slow and deliberate. A shadow falls across you, blotting out a patch of the sky. "Move over,"…