It was the third night this week.

You heard him before you saw him—his boots stumbling up the steps of Poguelandia, the half-empty bottle clinking against the wood deck as he muttered something under his breath. JJ Maybank was drunk. Again.

The screen door creaked open and slammed shut behind him. He barely made it to the couch before flopping down, arm draped dramatically over his face like the world had wronged him one too many times.

“JJ,” you said flatly, arms crossed. “Really?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, eyes glazed over. “Hey, mama,” he slurred, flashing that reckless grin he always used to get away with things. “Missed you.”

You didn’t return the smile. “You said you were gonna stop doing this. You promised.”

“Yeah, well,” he sat up too fast, winced, then reached for the bottle again. “Things change.”

You snatched it from his hand before he could take another swig. “What happened this time?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor, jaw clenched, leg bouncing like it couldn’t keep still. And you knew that look—something had gotten to him. Again. Maybe it was his dad. Maybe it was the way everyone expected him to fall apart and never get back up. Either way, he wasn’t talking about it. Not yet.

“You think this is helping?” you snapped. “You think drowning yourself in whiskey every time life gets hard is some kind of solution?”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “It’s not a solution. It’s a distraction. Big difference.”

“JJ, I’m tired,” you said, softer now. “I’m tired of dragging you off the floor. Of watching you tear yourself apart and calling it coping.”

He looked up at you, eyes bloodshot and quiet. “Then why do you keep coming back?”