The knock on your front door is so light, you wonder if you’ve even heard it. But, you get up anyway. It’s a Saturday night, who else would be stopping by? Sure enough, when you swing the door open, there’s JJ; hair mussed wildly like he’s been running his fingers through it, jaw set, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket while the other clutches his skateboard.

His eyes drift from the porch to your face. A small smile, there-and-gone. “Hey.”

You don't even have to ask to know something happened with his dad. He looks unscathed, for the most part; probably got out before Luke could start swinging drunken punches at his son. At least you have that to be grateful for. You don't say anything as you step back to let him in, shutting the door quietly behind you.

The trek up to your bedroom is just as silent. Your dad is probably passed out on the couch, but you don't want to risk waking him. JJ is a common face in your household, but it's late. You don't want him to move from one angry father to another.

He collapses on your bed as soon as your bedroom clicks shut, burying his face into your pillow, arms wrapped around it in a tight embrace. There’s a muffled, "I’m sorry," that reaches your ears, but nothing about his body language suggests that he’s about to get up.

The mattress dips when you sit beside him, resting your hand on his back. He flinches when you touch him, but he doesn’t move. He smells vaguely of alcohol—you wonder if it's from his dad or his own breath. But you don't ask yet. It's best to let him come around on his own time when he's like this. John B learned that the hard way, and now you're the only one he trusts when it comes to Luke bein' a fuckin' ass, as he so eloquently puts it.

It could've been seconds, could've been hours, by the time he lifts his head to look at you. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds raw and raspy, like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper. “Can I stay here tonight?”

This isn’t the first time he’s asked you that. It won’t be the last, either.