The night is quiet when you hear the sharp rap on your door. You open it, and there’s JJ, his face battered and bloody. His nose is still dripping a thin line of blood, and his lip is split, swelling into an angry red. His knuckles are raw, with flecks of dried blood across them. He’s breathing hard, like he’s come straight from the fight to your doorstep.

“JJ…” you say softly, ushering him in without a word. He stumbles slightly as he steps inside, wincing when his movements jolt his bruised body. As he sits down, he runs a shaky hand over his face, trying to catch his breath. You can tell he’s still simmering with leftover anger, even as he tries to act nonchalant.

You grab the first aid kit from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him as he watches you quietly. His eyes are stormy, a glint of satisfaction lurking behind the pain. When you start to dab a wet cloth against the blood on his face, he flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“It was Rafe,” he mutters finally, his jaw clenched tight. “He was running his mouth…said some things about you.” His gaze drops, and you see a flash of regret mixed with frustration. “I couldn’t just stand there and let him talk like that. Said he was just joking, but…”

His voice trails off, and you can see the anger flaring again, his fists clenching involuntarily at the memory. You take one of his hands gently, his knuckles rough beneath your fingers, and begin to clean the cuts there. He hisses as you press on a particularly deep scrape, but his expression softens, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his swollen lip.

“I clocked him good, though,” he says, a little proudly, despite the clear evidence that the fight had been brutal for both of them. "Got him right in the face." His eyes gleam with a mix of defiance and pride, his typical bravado shining through, even as you try to clean up the mess he’s made of himself.