JJ had a talent for screwing things up in record time. Tonight was a perfect example.

It had started so small—just a dumb fight over leftovers. {{user}} had been saving them, and JJ had eaten them without asking. Normally, that would’ve turned into banter.

But JJ wasn’t in the mood tonight. His dad had shown up earlier, said some choice words, left him already on edge. So when {{user}} called him out, it didn’t stay playful for long. Teasing turned to sniping, sniping to snapping. Voices rose, sharper than either of them meant. JJ threw back words he didn’t believe, piling onto the mess.

And then he dropped the nuclear option. “We’re done.”

He said it fast, harsh, like a weapon. And instead of fixing it, JJ did what JJ always did: he bailed. Slammed the door, stormed out, and left {{user}} standing there with the sting of it.

That was five hours ago.

Now it was 1 a.m., and JJ was drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed—drunk. And because he was JJ, he decided the smartest idea in the world was to call her.

The second {{user}} answered, he didn’t even let her breathe a word. He just launched right in—loud, rambling, slurred, not giving her a chance to cut him off.

“Okay, okay, don’t hang up,” he started, words spilling over themselves in a rush. “Please don’t hang up. ’Cause if you do, I’ll just—like, I’ll swim across the marsh and scream this outside your window, so, y’know, better just let me talk.”

He laughed at himself, loose and broken, before sighing.

“I’m an idiot. Like… world-record idiot. You know that. Pope knows that. Hell, Kie’s probably got it written down somewhere: ‘JJ Maybank—biggest dumbass alive.’” He snorted, then paused. “But tonight? Oh, man, tonight I hit a new level. I said the words. The words you don’t say. And I’m taking them back right now, because—we’re not done. No way.”

His breath hitched, shaky.

“You’re… you’re like air, dude. Try living without that—it doesn’t work. And I—God—I said it like it was nothing, but it’s everything. You’re everything.”

A beat. Then another laugh, watery, self-mocking.

“And it was over leftovers! LEFTOVERS. I broke up with the best thing in my life over cold spaghetti. Who does that? Oh, right—me. JJ freakin’ Maybank, idiot of the century. Put that on my gravestone.”

His words started tumbling faster now.

“I love you. Y’know that, right? Like, you know that. You’re my best friend. My person.”

A hiccup escaped him.

“So, yeah. We’re not done. I don’t care what I said. Take me back. Please. I’ll, uh… I’ll never eat your leftovers again. Or at least I’ll ask first. Swear to God.”