It was nearly midnight when you heard the tap—three quick knocks against the glass of your bedroom window. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

When you slid it open, there stood JJ, silhouetted by the dim porch light. His face was shadowed, but you could make out the swelling around his eye, the cut on his lip, and the way his shoulders sagged like he’d been holding the whole world up all day and was finally letting it fall.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

You stepped aside, letting him climb in with the ease of muscle memory. This wasn’t the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last. His boots were scuffed, his jacket torn at the sleeve, and his knuckles—bloody again.

Without a word, you motioned for him to sit. He sank onto the couch, dropping his jacket with a tired grunt. You crossed the room and pulled out the little box you kept for him now—bandages, antiseptic, gauze. Your hands moved on instinct. No questions. No judgment.

JJ watched you from beneath his lashes, his body still tense from whatever storm he’d walked through before landing here. He didn’t flinch when you cleaned the cuts, even when the alcohol stung. His jaw tightened, but his eyes never left yours.

“You always keep this stuff ready?” he asked after a beat, voice low, trying for humor but not quite landing it.

You didn’t smile. Just wrapped the bandage around his knuckles, gentle. “Only because I know you.”

The silence settled in again, not awkward, just… heavy. Honest. It was the kind of quiet he never got at home—the kind that didn’t press him to speak or explain. The kind where he could just be.

When you were done, you draped a blanket over his shoulders, soft and worn and warm. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his whole body finally sagging into the cushions.

You sat down beside him. Not close enough to crowd him, but near enough to be felt. Present. Solid.

A few minutes passed before you finally broke the silence, your voice soft. “Another fight with your dad?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Then, with a tired sigh: “Yeah. Same shit, different day. Doesn’t matter what I say or don’t say. He finds something to swing at.”