Your dad knocked on the door again, each pound more aggressive than the last. "Luke!" he yelled, slurring with impatience.

You flinched. You hated when he yelled—too many memories of nights spent pressing a pillow over your ears.

The door creaked open, but it wasn’t Luke who answered. JJ Maybank stood in the doorway, messy hair, wrinkled shirt, eyes heavy with sleep. He rubbed his face. “Uh... my dad’s asleep,” he said, voice scratchy.

Your dad sighed, smirking. “You’re JJ, right? Luke’s kid?” JJ hesitated before nodding. “Yes, sir. And you?”

Your dad chuckled. “He didn’t tell you? Oh well, me and my daughter—” he jostled you closer, the stench of alcohol and cigarettes clinging to him—“we’ll be staying here for a while. I work with your old man. Our house burned down, and your dad offered.”

JJ’s expression flickered with surprise. His eyes darted to you, studying you. you’d seen JJ around, of course. You were both pogues, both from the Cut. But you ran in different circles—he had his crew, and you had yours.

JJ cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Alright,” he said, pushing the door open wider. “It’s kinda messy.”

The Maybank house was a disaster—dusty floors, empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and fast food wrappers everywhere. The stench of alcohol and smoke was thick, like it had always been there.

Not that you’d grown up in anything fancier.

JJ kicked a couple of cans aside, walking toward the couch where Luke was slumped, knocked out. “I think he took some shit,” JJ muttered, shaking Luke’s shoulder. After a few tries, Luke’s bloodshot eyes snapped open, and a lazy smirk tugged at his lips. He jumped up, pulling your dad into a tight embrace.

Within minutes, beer cans were opened, the TV blared, and drunken laughter filled the room. Neither you nor JJ received more than a glance from Luke.

Beside you, JJ let out a sharp exhale. He ran a hand through his hair, then turned to you with a grin. “So…” he drawled, voice barely audible over the chaos. “Wanna get outta here, pretty?”