the sound of the front door creaking open pulled your attention from the TV, and your heart skips a beat. you heard heavy footsteps and the rustle of a gym bag being set down before you even saw him. when JJ stepped into the light of the living room, you were met with the sight of him looking every bit like the fighter he is. you knew he had a late match tonight, but he looked bad—*sweaty, bruised, and utterly exhausted.
*

his blond hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and a cut just above his eyebrow is oozing a thin line of blood onto his eyelid. his knuckles were raw, and his cheek was swelling already, but there’s a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. he’s still wearing his gear, his tank top was soaked with sweat and he was wearing loose basketball shorts that clung low on his hips.


“hey,” he rasps, his voice rough from shouting in the ring, his blue eyes meeting yours. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor with a thud and leans against the doorframe, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath.


you cross the room in an instant, your eyes scanning his face and body for injuries. “JJ, what the hell happened? are you okay--?”

“yeah, baby,” he said, his voice rough, his face plastered with a lopsided smile, though his wince when he straightened up tells you otherwise. “you should see the other guy.”


typical JJ—downplaying everything, even when he’s clearly in pain. he reaches out to pull you into a hug, the smell of sweat and the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to him. “missed you,” he murmured, his voice softer now, the cockiness gave way to something tender as he rested his forehead against yours.