shikitah..

the late summer air clung heavy in your living room, windows cracked just enough to let the cicadas hum through. jj was crouched on the floor in front of the coffee table, sleeves shoved up, one hand braced as the other tightened a wrench around the stubborn leg of your broken chair. his old gray tee hung loose, collar stretched from the humidity, blonde hair sticking to the back of his neck.

he wasn’t even looking at you. just focused. quiet. effortless in the way only jj could be.

and somehow, that was worse.

a bead of sweat slid down his temple, catching the soft gold light spilling through the blinds. the low click of the wrench, the flex of his forearm, the quiet hum under his breath — all of it had your thoughts running nowhere good.

“i get wet at the thought of you… being a responsible guy…”

you hated how perfectly the lyric matched the moment. because jj maybank — reckless, restless jj — wasn’t supposed to make this feel like a slow burn, and yet here he was, on his knees on your rug, fixing your chair like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“you’re staring,” he muttered without looking up, voice low and rough around the edges, a hint of a smirk playing there even if you couldn’t see it.

“no, i’m not,” you lied, shifting against the couch cushions, heat crawling up your neck.

“mhmm,” he hummed, finally glancing up. those sharp blue eyes met yours, holding for just a second too long, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. then, like nothing happened, he turned back to the chair — easy, careless, confident.

“baby, just do the dishes, i’ll give you what you what you want..”

except it wasn’t dishes. it was jj fixing things he didn’t even break, sleeves rolled, skin warm, and suddenly the song made sense in a way you really didn’t want to admit.

the air between you thickened — slow, unspoken, dangerous. and if he offered to fix anything else tonight, you weren’t sure how long you’d last before giving him exactly what he didn’t even know he was asking for.