The metallic sound of the wrench hitting the engine cut through the silence of the garage. The smell of gasoline and rust hung thick in the air as JJ leaned over the bike, his shirt stained with grease, his jaw far too tense for someone who claimed not to care about anything.

He knew you were there. He’d noticed your footsteps before you even stopped behind him. Still, he didn’t turn around.

Last night was still painfully fresh in his mind. The kiss. The loud laughter. The Pogues seeing everything. Rafe Cameron touching you like he had any right to.

When you finally spoke — “JJ… can we talk?” — he just tightened his grip on the part he was working on.

His silence wasn’t indifference. It was restraint.

“Go ahead,” he muttered, still not looking at you. “Not like today wasn’t already a mess.”