he was shirtless, arms flexed as he pulled himself up on the doorframe, muscles tense, sweat glistening across his skin. the room smelled faintly of salt and smoke, the windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in. he didn’t notice you at first—too focused, too locked into the rhythm of his workout.

you stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. your jaw was tight, your heart heavier than it had been all day. you watched him for a moment, the way his body moved, the way his breath came in short bursts. then you spoke.

“did you hurt him?”

your voice was sharp. accusing. but underneath it, there was something else. something softer. something scared.

he dropped down, feet hitting the floor with a thud, and turned to face you. his chest rose and fell, eyes scanning yours like he was trying to read the whole story behind them.

you didn’t flinch.

“rafe,” you said, voice quieter now. “did you beat him up?”

jj didn’t answer right away. he grabbed a towel from the counter, wiped his face, then tossed it aside. his jaw clenched, and you saw it—the flicker of guilt, the fire of rage still burning behind his eyes.

“you told me he hit you,” he said finally. “what was i supposed to do? let him walk around like he owns you?”

you looked away, throat tightening. “i didn’t ask you to fight him.”

“you didn’t have to.”

the silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. you didn’t know if you were angry at him for what he did—or angry at yourself for needing someone to do it.

but jj was standing there, bruised knuckles and all, and he didn’t regret it.

not one bit.