You’re standing there. Not involved. Not engaging. Just caught in the same space.

JJ’s distracted for half a second — that’s all it takes. The leash jerks hard. The dog lunges forward, big body slamming into your side, claws scraping sharply against your arm, your shoulder — not playful, not gentle. Just sudden. Heavy. Too fast.

“OH— shit— NO—”

JJ snaps instantly. He yanks the leash back hard, almost stumbling himself. The dog lets out a confused noise as it’s pulled away, paws scraping the sand.

“Fuck—” JJ breathes, panic clear in his voice now. “Hey— hey—”

He steps in front of the dog without thinking, body tense, jaw clenched, eyes locked on you like he’s checking for damage he’s scared to see.

“Are you—” he stops himself, swallows. “Did he—”

JJ’s hands are shaking slightly as he grips the leash tighter, knuckles white.

“I didn’t see him move,”

he says fast, words tumbling over each other. “I swear, I had the leash— I—” The dog whines softly behind him, finally sitting, sensing the shift. JJ exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, clearly pissed — at himself, not you.

“Shit,” he mutters again. “That’s on me. Completely.”

He looks at you once more, serious now. No jokes. No grin. No nonchalant JJ bullshit. Just concern. Real. Raw.

“…Tell me if you need me to get help,” he adds quietly.