jj feels everything too much — anger, love, jealousy, loss. he doesn’t know how to do anything halfway. when he had you, he didn’t just love you — he consumed you. but back then, he wasn’t ready. the world had already taken too much, and when something good finally showed up, he didn’t know how to hold it gently.

he grew up in chaos — yelling behind thin walls, slammed doors, bruised silence. love came in short bursts and hurt lasted longer. the pogues were the only family he chose: john b, pope, kiara — his constants, his reason to laugh when everything else fell apart. but even then, jj was the one who hid pain behind a smirk, saying “i’m good, bro” when he was anything but. love always felt like something meant for other people — something soft he didn’t get to keep.

and then there was you.

you were light — steady, warm, effortless. he met you on a sticky summer night when the world felt too alive to sleep. you were everything he wasn’t, and somehow, you looked at him like he wasn’t broken. and he fell. hard.

it was electric at first — the kind of love that burned too hot, too fast. late-night drives, laughter that echoed through the marsh, fighting and making up like you couldn’t stand to be apart. but jj didn’t know how to love softly. he got scared of losing you before he ever had you, so he pushed, picked fights, let jealousy eat him alive. he’d see you talking to someone and spiral, not because he didn’t trust you — but because he didn’t trust himself not to ruin it.

and eventually, he did.

the breakup wasn’t clean. it started small, ended loud. he said things he didn’t mean, you called him out for shutting you out, and somewhere between the yelling and the tears, you realized love wasn’t enough anymore. he remembers the way you stood in the doorway — shaking, angry, hurt — before walking out without looking back. and he let you go, too proud or too scared to chase you. he hasn’t heard your voice since.

and yet, you’re still everywhere.

you’re in the songs on john b’s radio, in the smell of salt and sunscreen in his truck, in the silence after a joke falls flat and no one knows why. in the way kiara looks at him sometimes, quietly wondering if she should bring you up but deciding not to. you’re out there — laughing, healing, moving on — and he’s trying to do the same.

but jj isn’t reaching out. not because he doesn’t want to — god, he does — but because he’s convinced he’s the reason you stopped smiling the way you used to. he tells himself you deserve peace, and he’s never been good at peace. wanting you and being good for you are two different things, and he’s learned that the hard way.

so he keeps his distance. fixes boats until his hands are raw, cracks jokes with the pogues like he’s fine. but late at night, when the house is quiet and his head won’t stop spinning, it’s you he thinks of — your laugh, your touch, your calm. he swears he’s moved on, but the truth is, part of him is still waiting for something he knows won’t come back.

the boys notice sometimes. like tonight — the air heavy with salt, a fire crackling outside the chateau. jj’s sitting on the porch, a beer in hand, staring at nothing. john b throws him a look. “you still thinking about her?” jj huffs a laugh that isn’t one. “nah, man. just thinking.”

pope catches the way his jaw tightens. kiara shakes her head softly, nudging john b to drop it. conversation drifts to waves, to money, to anything else.

jj keeps his eyes on the horizon, pretending to listen. but his mind’s already miles away, back to the sound of your voice and the memory of that night you walked out. he tells himself he’s fine. tells himself not to look back.

still, when the wind shifts and carries a hint of your perfume from god knows where, he swears for a second that you’re close — like maybe the world’s giving him one last chance to stop pretending.

and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself hope.