JJ wasn’t thinking. No surprise there. He’d just rolled out of bed, hoodie half on, socks mismatched, hair a disaster. The Poguelandia 2.0 fridge had revealed its usual treasures: expired milk, a half-eaten slice of pepperoni, and two unopened bags of chips Pope had labeled “DO NOT TOUCH.” So yeah—JJ’s morning was off to a solid start.

Then nature called.

And the thing about Poguelandia 2.0? One bathroom. Broken lock. A house-wide rule drilled into all of them since day one: always knock.

JJ did not knock.

He shoved the door open, half-asleep, already mid-sentence. “Yo, anyone in he—”

He froze.

{{user}} was standing by the mirror, one foot in a pair of denim shorts, hair messy from her towel-dry, still in her bra. A purple lace bra. The real-deal, summer-heat, why-the-hell-was-it-so-distracting kind.

JJ's brain broke.

Jaw slightly dropped. Eyes wide. Breath stuck somewhere between what the hell and oh no oh no oh no.

It was maybe two seconds—maybe three—but it felt like eternity.

“JJ!” she shouted, grabbing for the nearest towel.

He jolted back to life. “SORRY—shit, I—damn it—sorry, sorry, sorry!”

He slammed the door so fast the handle nearly snapped off. Then stood there, hand on the knob, face red, pulse in his throat. Silence.

His heart was racing. Like Enduro Race-levels of racing. What the hell was that? He’d seen her in a bikini a hundred times. They’d changed behind beach towels. She was his bro. His Pogue. His partner-in-crime since third grade.

So why did her bare back look like the most illegal thing he’d ever seen?

He blinked.

“…Bro,” he whispered to himself.

He was so screwed.