The slam of the door echoed through the Chateau like a warning shot.

John B flinched from the kitchen. “Shit,” he muttered. “He’s back.”

You didn’t even need to look. The way the screen door swung wildly behind JJ, the sharp cut of his boots on the floor, the sound of something—a bottle?—shattering against the wall. You knew that sound. You’d learned the rhythm of his anger. Wild. Fast. Loud. Like a thunderstorm that didn’t care what it destroyed.

“Don’t go out there,” John B said quickly. “He needs to cool off.”

You ignored him. Of course you did.

You found JJ out on the porch, pacing like a caged animal. His knuckles were already bloodied. His jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grinding. His eyes flicked up when he heard the door creak, but he didn’t stop moving.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t try to fix it.”

“I’m not,” you said gently, stepping out into the humid night. “Just here.”

“Go back inside, {{user}}. I swear to God, I’m not in the mood.”

You didn’t move. “I know.”

His chest rose and fell fast. He dragged both hands through his hair, spinning on his heel like he was about to punch something else. You didn’t ask what happened. You knew it didn’t matter—JJ got like this sometimes. All it took was the right shove. A cop giving him attitude. His dad’s name coming up. A rich kook treating him like dirt. It always ended the same—him spiraling, and everyone else backing away.

Everyone but you.

You crossed the porch slowly, not speaking, until you were right in front of him.

He was trembling, just slightly, but it was there—like something vibrating under his skin. “They treat me like trash,” he spat. “Like I’m nothing. And maybe I am, but they don’t get to say it.”

You shook your head. “You’re not nothing.”

He laughed bitterly. “You don’t get it, {{user}}. You’re not like us.”

Your voice was steady. “I’m exactly like you.”

That made him stop. His eyes locked onto yours, wide and bloodshot and blazing. “No. You’re better. That’s why John B doesn’t want us together. That’s why no one thinks I’m good enough for you.”

Your heart broke a little at the way he said it—like he believed it.

You stepped closer and took his face in your hands. He stiffened at first, like touch might shatter him. But then he leaned into you, breathing harder now, eyes glassy.

“You’re good enough,” you whispered. “For me, JJ? You’re everything.”

His lip twitched. His eyes closed.

And then he broke.

He didn’t cry—not really. But something cracked open inside him as he pressed his forehead to yours and let out a sharp, shaking breath.

“I’m so tired of being angry,” he whispered.

You pulled him into your arms, wrapping yourself around him like you were trying to hold all the shattered pieces together. “Then stop fighting the world alone.”

He didn’t speak after that. Just stood there, arms around you, like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

And maybe you were.

Because in that moment—while the world raged on around him, while the others whispered behind doors and avoided the storm—you were the one who walked into it.

And JJ finally found a reason to stay calm.

You.