JJ’s already regretting this. His teeth grind together as he stands on your pristine-ass porch, shifting his weight like the wood’s too fancy for him to be touching. He’s got that edge to him tonight—that kinda itchy, restless thing he gets when he’s seconds away from bolting.

“Remind me why the hell I agreed to this?” he mutters, shoulders hiked, hands stuffed in his pockets. His voice is low, like maybe if he whispers it, the rich white-people dinner looming behind the door will magically vanish.

You’re fussing with your hair in the window’s reflection and not even looking at him. Typical. “It’ll be fine, JJ,” you say, tossing him a smile over your shoulder like it’s enough to make him forget how badly this whole thing smells like a setup. “Just dinner.”

Just dinner, she says.

He exhales hard through his nose, like that’s gonna help. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

JJ doesn’t do dinner. Not like this, anyway. His version of dinner is a lukewarm gas station hot dog and a stolen can of beer, not whatever the hell your folks are cooking up with those glinty knives and weird little salad forks. He’s already feeling itchy in his skin, like he should’ve worn something nicer but also like fuck that—he’s not about to play dress-up just to get judged sideways.

Especially not by your dad.

God. The way that guy looks at him, it’s like JJ crawled out of the fucking sewer and knocked on his door to date his daughter for fun. He knows the type—pristine button-downs, white collar job, that stiff kind of politeness that screams I hate you without saying a damn word.

Still, JJ follows you in. Like he always does.

Because he’s a dumbass. Because you smiled at him. Because love makes people do idiotic things like this.

And now he’s here—sitting at your family’s glossy dinner table, elbows awkwardly off the surface, watching everyone else move like it’s some kind of freakin’ ballet. The forks scrape their plates just right, the napkins get dabbed at mouths with choreographed precision, and JJ? JJ’s just sitting there, trying not to choke on the fact that he doesn’t belong.

The air feels tight. He swears someone turned the thermostat down just to make him uncomfortable. And your dad hasn’t said shit yet, but JJ can feel the judgment coming off him in waves.

He reaches for the water glass like it’s a lifeline. Miscalculates. It clinks too loud against the plate. He winces.

God, kill him.