no way you found that.

jj’s standing in the doorway, towel slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from the surf. he stops in his tracks when he sees it — that beat-up, glitter-covered photo album cracked open in your lap. the one you and pope used to fill with pictures of everything that ever mattered.

he grins, that lopsided smirk playing on his face, but there’s something softer underneath it. something caught in his throat.

“you serious right now?” he says, walking over, dropping down next to you on the old couch like gravity pulled him there. “how old is that thing?”

he leans closer, the scent of saltwater and sunscreen clinging to his skin, eyes scanning the page. there’s a photo of you and pope, maybe six or seven, standing in a sprinkler with your faces scrunched up mid-scream. glitter stars are stuck to the corners. jj laughs — really laughs.

“we looked like such dorks,” he mutters, brushing a thumb across the edge of the picture, careful not to smudge the memory.

it’s quiet for a second. the kind of quiet that holds something in it.

“you miss it?” he asks suddenly. “like… before everything went to shit?”

his voice is softer now, like he’s not sure he wants an answer.

and then, after a beat:

“’cause i do.”

he nudges your knee with his, eyes flicking back to yours.

“c’mon, scoot over. let’s see what other embarrassing crap you got in there.”