JJ was losing his damn mind, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him—unless you noticed how his knee bounced hard enough to shake the van, or how his fingers tapped nonstop against his thigh like they were sending some kind of Morse code.

All because of that call.

“Mr. Maybank? We’re calling about your friend, {{user}}. You’re listed as her emergency contact—”

“What?” JJ’s voice cracked mid-sentence, eyes already wide. “What happened? Is she okay?”

The nurse tried to explain, but JJ’s brain had already short-circuited. Something about an accident. Something about the hospital. And then, because JJ was JJ, he hung up too fast—like an idiot—before she could finish a single damn sentence.

That was it. Panic hit him like a truck.

The drive? A blur. He told John B to floor it so many times it stopped sounding like words. Every turn was too slow. Every red light felt like sabotage. His heart was racing. His thoughts were chaos. Worst-case scenarios played on a loop—car crash, head trauma, coma. He kept replaying their last conversation. Had he told her to be careful? Had he made her laugh?

When they skidded to a stop outside the ER, JJ was out of the van before the engine cut. He shoved through the sliding doors.

“Where’s {{user}}?!” he shouted at the first nurse he saw, hair wild, hoodie sliding off one shoulder.

She blinked. “Room 3B. Down the hall, to the right.”

JJ took off like a shot.

His heart was in his throat. His palms were sweating. He wasn’t even sure he was ready—what if she was hooked up to machines? What if—

He burst into Room 3B, breathless, vision blurred from the adrenaline. “{{user}}!”

And there she was.

Sitting up on the hospital bed. Splint on her ankle. Sad little pout. Munching on hospital Graham crackers.

JJ froze. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”