JJ never believed in forever.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because no one had ever shown him it was real. Not his dad. Not the system. Not anyone who was supposed to stay. People always left. People always gave up. So he learned not to get too close. Learned to make jokes, keep moving, keep it light, and never ever believe it when someone said they cared.

And then there was you.

You, with the way you never flinched when he got loud. The way you stayed quiet when he needed it. The way you handed him pieces of your heart like you weren’t afraid he’d drop them. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t broken.

The way you loved him before he even knew how to love himself.

He should’ve seen it coming. The moment. The confession.

It was a slow night on the beach, fire crackling low, everyone else passed out in hammocks and half-buried in blankets. Just the two of you, sitting close, toes barely touching under the sand. He was telling you something dumb—something about getting kicked out of school again, some story he was laughing through that probably hurt a lot more than he let on.

And you were just looking at him.

Really looking.

You said it so quietly, it almost got lost in the sound of the waves.

“I love you.”

He went completely still.

The words hit like they weren’t meant for him. Like they floated in from another world. He blinked, shook his head, laughed under his breath like he could shrug it off.

“Don’t say stuff you don’t mean,” he mumbled.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. You just leaned in a little closer, eyes soft, voice steady.

“I’m not kidding, JJ. I mean it.”

He stood up. Quick. Defensive. Like the sand was on fire.

He started pacing, running both hands through his hair like he could physically shake it off. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. He was breathing too hard. You could see the panic in his shoulders, the way his walls were slamming back into place.

You stood too. Quietly.

“JJ—”

“You shouldn’t,” he snapped, voice cracking. “You shouldn’t love me. I don’t—people don’t love me. I screw things up. I run. I always run.”

“I know,” you whispered.

That’s when he finally looked at you.

And the look on your face… it undid him.

No fear. No pressure. Just love. Just that patient, devastating love.

“You’re not gonna leave, are you?” he asked, almost like a challenge.

“No,” you said. “I’m not.”

He stood there for a long moment. His chest rising and falling, fists clenched, jaw tight. You could see the war in him—stay or run, break or rebuild, believe or back away.

But then—slowly—he took one step forward.

Then another.

And another.

Until he was standing right in front of you.

And this time, he didn’t kiss you like a boy who was afraid. He kissed you like a boy who chose you. Like he didn’t want to keep running.

His hands trembled when they touched your face. His lips were soft, slow, full of something terrified and whole. And when he pulled back, eyes glassy and unsure, he said it so quietly it hurt:

“I don’t know how to do this. But I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you whispered.

Because this was the first time he didn’t run.

The first time he let someone love him—and believed they meant it.

The first time he stayed.