After you and the Pogues found the Blue Crown, everything changed. You didn’t live together anymore—no more constant running, no more treasure hunting. You all had different lives now.

John B and Sarah lived a little outside of town with their daughter and a dog. Kiara had opened her own turtle rescue center. Pope worked in the Marines, and Cleo still lived at his parents’ place, always visiting when she could.

And then there was you and JJ.

You’d bought a small house on the Cut—nothing fancy, but it was yours. And inside lived your little girl, Macey, and JJ Maybank—the boy who swore he’d never become like his father… and was now fighting not to.

When you told JJ you were pregnant two years ago, he spiraled. The thought of being a father—after everything his own put him through—completely shattered him. He lost himself in drinking, pulled away, acted like someone you barely recognized.

But JJ wasn’t a coward. He didn’t leave.

Eventually, he came back. Sober—for a while. Present. Determined. And more loving than ever. The first few months were perfect—just the three of you in your own little bubble. The kind of life you always used to dream about, sitting on rooftops and talking about the “what ifs.”

But it didn’t last.

JJ started working on a trawler, out on the water every day—hauling in fish under the sun, surrounded by salty air, sharp men, and too much time to think. He’d leave early and come home late. Most nights, he came back drunk. Annoyed. Exhausted. Something inside him had cracked open again—and the version of him who stumbled through the door each night was not the one who used to kiss your belly and promise he’d be better.

You’d been walking on eggshells for weeks. And tonight was no different.

You sat curled up on the couch, a soft blanket around you, Macey nestled into your side with a juice pouch half-empty in her lap. Some mindless cartoon flickered across the screen—colors and noise you barely registered.

Then the front door slammed.

You flinched.

JJ stumbled in, reeking of seawater, oil, smoke, and whiskey. His jacket was half off one shoulder, and his boots thudded against the hardwood as he kicked them off carelessly.

“Hey,” he mumbled, barely glancing at you.

“Hi,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the screen though you weren’t watching anymore.

He walked past, into the kitchen, and you heard the clink of a bottle against the counter. Another one.

You swallowed hard.

Macey looked up at you. “Mommy? Is Daddy grumpy again?”

Your heart cracked. “No, baby. He’s just tired.”

JJ came back into the living room, drink in hand, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes were bloodshot, shoulders tense. You could tell—like every other night this week—it was coming.

“You’re just gonna sit there? Not even ask how my day was?” he muttered, almost to himself but loud enough to sting.

You turned your head slowly. “You want me to ask how your day was? Fine. How was it, JJ? Did you drink on the boat or wait until after this time?”

He froze, eyes narrowing.

“You think it’s easy out there? You think I like this shit?” His voice rose, jaw clenched.

“I think I don’t like the man who comes home smelling like this and yells in front of our daughter,” you snapped, voice shaking with emotion you’d been swallowing for weeks.

JJ laughed bitterly, downing the rest of the bottle in a single swallow. “Right. ’Cause you’re perfect, huh?”

You stood up, gently lifting Macey into your arms.

“This isn’t about me being perfect. It’s about Macey. About the fact that you said you’d be better. And right now? You’re not.”

JJ stared at the floor, his fists clenched at his sides.

You could see it—the battle inside him. The part of him that wanted to scream and the part of him that wanted to cry.