JJ’s boots kick up wet sand as he stalks along the shoreline, each step harder than the last. His fists are clenched so tight they’re shaking, and his jaw won’t stop grinding because goddammit, he didn’t mean it—he never means it when it’s like that.

But the words came out anyway, sharp and ugly, echoing in the silence John B left behind.

The wind blows his hair into his face, salt clinging to his skin, the air thick with everything he didn’t say and everything he shouldn’t have. He yanks off his hoodie like he can tear the anger off too, hurls it to the sand, breathing hard like he’s been running—not from them, but from himself.

Behind him: footsteps. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t have to. He knows it’s you. No one else ever follows. JJ drags a hand down his face, lets out a bitter laugh without humor. “Shoulda figured it’d be you.”

His voice is hoarse from yelling, but it softens just a little when he speaks again—like you're the only person he doesn’t want to scare away. “I didn’t mean what I said to him. I just—I don’t know, it’s like… once it starts, I can’t stop the fire.”

He kicks at a piece of driftwood, watches it splinter. There’s silence between you for a moment, thick and heavy. JJ stares at the waves like maybe they’ll drown the memory of the fight before it eats him whole. “I know he’s pissed. He should be.”

His shoulders rise and fall in a long, slow breath. “I say shit when I’m scared, okay? And I’ve been scared as hell lately.”

He finally turns, and there’s no mask this time—no smirk, no deflection, just wide eyes and that scared little boy he hides behind all the chaos. The way he look at you is almost a question.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeats, barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? ’Cause I still said it.”

JJ sinks into the sand with a thud, pulling his knees up, arms draped loosely over them. For once, he doesn't try to act like he's fine. Not with you. “I screw everything up, don’t I?”