You hadn’t heard from him all day.

Not a single text. Not even the usual voice memo of him teasing you or rambling about something dumb John B said. Just… silence.

You tried not to overthink it. He did this sometimes—JJ would go quiet when the world got too loud. But this time felt different.

And when you pushed open the door to the Chateau and saw him sitting at the kitchen table—bloody, bruised, knuckles torn open—you knew it wasn’t just another bad mood.

You froze.

“JJ…?”

He looked up slowly. His eye was swollen, his lip split. There was dried blood on his jaw.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

Your heart dropped. “What the hell happened?”

He stood up too fast, flinching when he moved. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” You walked toward him, eyes locked on the busted skin above his eyebrow. “You look like you got thrown off a cliff.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Just a little fight. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. JJ—Jesus.” Your voice cracked as you reached out, fingers ghosting over the bruise near his temple. “You could’ve—God, you could’ve died.”

His jaw clenched. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point!”

You stepped back, blinking rapidly. The tears were coming faster than you wanted.

“You didn’t even tell me. What if I hadn’t come by? What if I found out from someone else? Or worse—not at all?”

JJ didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the floor like it was easier than looking at you.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he muttered. “Didn’t want you to look at me and think I’m… broken. Or pathetic.”

Your voice was quieter now. “You think I care about the bruises?”

He finally looked up. And something in his face cracked open—his mask, his armor, whatever wall he always held up between himself and the rest of the world.

“You’re the only good thing I got,” he said, voice thick. “I didn’t wanna scare you off.”

You moved to him without thinking. Arms around his neck, pulling him into you.