the perfect girl → outer banks ₁

[ 030 ] i look for you in everything.

THE PERFECT GIRL.

chapter thirty, i look for you in everything.
[ season two, original episode ]

THE PAIN OF LOSING JOHN B AND SARAH IS A CONSTANT IN HER LIFE NOW. It carves through Rory like a physical wound, a hollow space beneath her ribs that nothing can fill. A week, and the ache hasn't dulled, it just changes shape, morphing from sharp, stabbing grief into something deeper, more permanent. She's run out of tears to cry, leaving only this raw emptiness that follows her like a shadow.

In the quiet hours of night, when sleep refuses to come, the old familiar craving creeps in. That whispered promise of chemical comfort, of cocaine's false embrace. The taste memory sits on her tongue, taunting her, a ghost of euphoria that beckons with seductive familiarity.

Her hands shake sometimes, when the need gets particularly bad, and she finds herself unconsciously touching her nose, muscle memory from a past life she's desperately trying to leave behind. But she won't give in. Can't give in. A year and a half of sobriety means too much to throw away, even if the pain feels impossible to bear sober. Even if every cell in her body screams for that crystalline escape, for just one line to make it all stop hurting.

The Fernsby Estate is no longer home, how could it be, knowing what Dylan did? One night, she'd slipped in like a ghost, gathered her belongings, and left nothing but a carefully drawn middle finger as her goodbye. Her hands had trembled then too, but with rage rather than want. The Château welcomed her back without question, wrapping her in its familiar embrace of salt air and sun-worn wood. Here, at least, the memories are good ones, even if they cut like glass now.

John B's presence lingers in every corner, their shared space now just hers. The worn furniture, the surfboards propped against walls, even the particular way the screen door creaks, it's all him. The smell of saltwater and boy still clings to everything, and she guards it jealously, afraid to let even that small piece of him fade. His favorite blue hoodie still hangs by the door, and sometimes, in her weakest moments, she buries her face in it, searching for traces of his scent beneath the musty fabric.

The others drift in and out like tide, but JJ. . . JJ is her constant. He's there as much as she is, both of them tending to the Château like it's a living thing that needs their care. More often than not, they end up in her small bedroom, finding comfort in each other's arms, letting desire temporarily eclipse their grief. It's not just about the physical connection, though that part is intense enough to make her forget everything else for blessed moments. It's about the way he holds her after, like she's something precious, something worth protecting.

Today marks eight days. Rory lies in her twin bed, wearing only JJ's faded blue t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh. Her head rests on his bare chest, their skin still flushed and cooling from their recent intimacy. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath her ear, a rhythm that grounds her when everything else feels like it's spinning apart. She traces absent patterns on his chest, following the slight raise of old scars she knows by heart now. Each mark tells a story of his past, of pain inflicted by hands that should have shown love instead.

"School starts next week," she murmurs, watching her finger draw invisible circles over his heart. His skin is warm beneath her touch, still slightly damp with sweat. The thought of returning makes her stomach twist with anxiety. The craving intensifies, and she presses closer to JJ, using his presence to anchor herself against the pull of addiction.

JJ's hand, which has been running slowly through her hair, pauses. "Yeah," he says softly, then resumes the gentle motion, his fingers massaging her scalp in a way that makes her melt against him. "You gonna be okay going back?" There's genuine concern in his voice, understanding of what she's fighting against.