The Golden Rule of Sundays
Pairing: JJ Maybank x Female!Reader
Word Count: ~1,200 words
Trope: Strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Established Relationship
Vibes: Soft, nostalgic, coastal, morning light, domestic fluff
Warnings: Pure fluff, mentions of a rough upbringing (canonical to JJ), excessive syrup
The screen door of The Wreck’s breakfast annex didn’t just open; it groaned. It was a humid Sunday in July, the kind of morning where the air felt like a wet blanket, and the tourists were already complaining about the wait times for a table.
You were wiping down the counter, the scent of chicory coffee and salt air clinging to your apron, when he walked in. he didn’t look like the typical Figure Eight kid looking for a croissant. He looked like he’d spent the night on a boat–or a beach–with tangled blonde hair and a baseball cap pulled low.
He sat at the far end of the counter, the seat with the wobbly leg.
“Morning,” you said, sliding a water glass his way. “Menu?”
“Nah,” he said, his voice a little raspy, eyes flickering up to meet yours. He had this smirk–half-trouble, half-charm. “I heard a rumor you guys make the best banana pancakes on the island.”
“The secret’s in the grill,” you replied. “How do you want ‘em?”
“Burnt,” he said instantly. “Well, not charred. Just crispy at the edges. And enough syrup to drown a man. Can you handle that, or am I asking for the moon here?”
You laughed, reaching for your order pad. “One order of moon-pancakes, coming up. Name for the ticket?”
“JJ,” he said, leaning back and tapping a rhythmic beat on the Formica. “And you are?”
“The person holding the spatula,” you teased. “Patience, JJ.”
———————————————————————————————————
By the fourth Sunday, you didn’t even have to ask. You’d see the battered motorbike pull into the lot, and you’d tell the cook to drop the batter.
“Crispy edges, extra syrup,” you’d say, sliding the plate in front of him.
“You’re a mind reader,” JJ would grin, already reaching for the fork. “I’m tellin’ you, these things are the only reason I get out of bed before noon. What’s the damage today?”
“On the house if you tell me where you got that bruise on your jaw,” you said softly, leaning over the counter.
The smirk faltered for a second, a shadow passing over those blue eyes before the mask slid back into place. “Work hazard. Moving crates is a dangerous game, sweetheart. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Just keep the pancakes coming.”
“Sunday wouldn’t be Sunday without them,” you murmured.
———————————————————————————————————
The kitchen was different. It wasn’t a professional line with a grease trap; it was a tiny, cramped kitchenette in a rental that smelled like floor wax and salt spray. It was the first place that was yours… truly yours.
It was JJ’s 20th birthday, and the sun was barely peaking over the Atlantic. You were standing at the stove, the familiar hiss of batter hitting a hot pan filling the room.
“Is that what I think it is?”
A pair of tanned, scarred arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, bare chest. JJ buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
“It’s a tradition,” you said, flipping the first pancake. “You don’t get a choice.”
“I’m not complaining,” he hummed, his hands sliding up to rest on your hips. “God, remember that first time at the diner? I thought you were going to kick me out for being a nuisance.”
“I considered it,” you joked, turning in his arms. “You were a terrible tipper back then.”
“I was broke!” JJ yelled, leaning in to steal a kiss that tasted like morning and sleep. “I spent my last ten bucks on those pancakes just to have an excuse to talk to the pretty girl with the spatula.”
“Oh, so it was a scheme?”
“Total setup,” he admitted, grinning. “Best investment I ever made.”
———————————————————————————————————
The rain was drumming a steady, rhythmic beat against the roof of the house. It was one of those Outer Banks storms that turned the world grey and made the roads impassable, the kind of day where the “To-Do” list got tossed out the window.
You groaned, rolling over in bed and squinting at the clock. 11:42 AM.
You followed the sound of his voice–and the unmistakable, sweet scent of caramelized fruit–into the kitchen. Jack Johnson was playing softly on a small Bluetooth speaker, the acoustic guitar notes mingling with the sound of the rain.
JJ was standing at the stove, wearing nothing but a pair of old board shorts. He was focused, hovering over the pan with the intensity of a master chef.
“Look at you,” you leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms. “Domestic JJ is a rare breed.”
“Hey, it’s a special occasion,” he said without looking up.
“It’s… Tuesday,” you pointed out.
“Exactly. It’s Tuesday, it’s raining, and we finally finished the porch repairs,” he countered, finally turning around with a triumphant grin. He held up a plate stacked high. “Banana pancakes. Crispy at the edges. I even went light on the syrup–just kiddin’, there’s a lake of it at the bottom.”
He set the plate down on the small wooden table and pulled out a chair for you. “M’lady.”
You sat down, watching him sit opposite you with his own stack. It was a far cry from the wobbly stool at the diner. Now, there were photos of the two of you on the fridge, a dog bowl in the corner, and a key on the hook that didn’t belong to a landlord.
“You know,” you said, taking a bite. “I think you actually make them better than the diner did.”
JJ stopped with a fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes widening. “Whoa… careful. That’s blasphemy in this house.”
“I’m serious! The bananas are perfectly caramelized.”
“It’s the love, baby,” he said, his voice dropping into that playful, gravelly tone you loved. He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb traced circles over your knuckles. “And maybe the fact that we don’t have to go anywhere. No crowds, no tourists, no Kooks. Just us… and the rain.”
He looked out the window at the storm, then back at you, his expression softening into something so sincere it made your heart ache.
“I used to sit at that counter and dream about this,” he whispered. “Not just the food. But having a place where the air felt… safe. Where I could just wake up and know you’d be there.”
You squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, JJ.”
“Good,” he said, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. He leaned forward, pointing his fork at you. “Because you’re still the only person I trust with the syrup-to-pancake ratio. But seriously… eat up. We’ve got nothin’ but time, and I’m pretty sure there’s another batch of batter in the bowl.”
“Breakfast, lunch, dinner…” JJ shrugged a wide, easy smile breaking across his face. “It’s the Golden Rule of the Maybank household. If it’s rainin’, we’re having banana pancakes.”
You leaned across the table, kissing him softly, the taste of maple syrup and home lingering between you.
“I can live with that rule,” you whispered.
“Me too,” he murmured against your lips.
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