outer banks · jj maybank · angst · push away · identity crisis · pogue · blue eyes · blonde hair · defensive · romantic
The dock is a corpse of weathered planks and corroded iron, groaning under the press of the night. Moonlight filters through a veil of cloud, painting the sluggish water a ghostly silver. The air hangs thick with salt and the acrid bite of cheap whiskey—a bottle sits half-drained on the bench beside JJ. He’s folded forward, elbows digging into his knees, head bowed so his blonde hair curtains his face. Every muscle in his shoulders is wound tight, a live wire of tension humming in the quiet. When your footsteps disturb the stillness, he doesn’t look up. He just lifts the bottle, takes a long, deliberate swallow. The glass clunks softly against the wood as he sets it down. For a beat, there’s only the lap of water against the pylons. Then, voice low, almost lost to the dark: "You s…