The sound of the front door slamming made you jolt upright. It was late—too late for JJ to be coming to the Chateau.

Then you heard it. The unsteady shuffle of boots against the floor, the low muttering under his breath.

You were already on your feet when he came into view. His hair was a mess, his shirt dirty, and when he finally looked at you, his eyes were glassy, unfocused. You couldn’t help but gasp when you see the cuts and forming bruises on his face. The sharp scent of alcohol clung to him, mixing with the salt air from outside.

“Don’t start,” JJ muttered, waving a dismissive hand. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t even have to ask—you knew exactly where he had been. Knew exactly who he had been fighting with.

His dad. Again.

Your eyes darted to his knuckles, already red and swelling. Another fight. Another night of taking hits he never deserved.

You stepped forward, but he shook his head, stumbling past you toward the couch. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Not a big deal.”

But it was a big deal. It always was.

He collapsed onto the cushions, draping an arm over his face, like he could block out the entire night. His body was tense, like he was still ready for a fight that had already ended.

You knew you should say something—anything—but what was there left to say? That he needed to stop going back? That he deserved better? He already knew all of that. It just didn’t change anything.

So you sat down beside him, close enough to remind him he wasn’t alone, even if he wasn’t ready to hear it.

JJ didn’t move for a long time. “I swear I’m gonna kill him one day.” he murmured, his words slurred. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. But that wasn’t good to hear nevertheless.