The hum of the laptop filled the quiet kitchen as you scrolled through yet another article, your eyes scanning for any mention of her. Larissa Genrette. JJ's mother. The woman who, from every testimony you’d managed to dig up, was kind, loving, and utterly devoted to her son before tragedy took her far too soon. You didn’t know if it would help JJ—if finding pieces of her would ease the weight he carried—but you had to try. He’d been distant, tense lately, like the news about his birth parents had cracked open something he wasn’t quite ready to face.

“Why are you still up?”

JJ’s voice startled you, sharp and tired, as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes, shadowed by sleepless nights and unspoken thoughts, locked onto the laptop. “What’re you doing?”

“Just… stuff,” you said, your tone evasive.

He frowned. “What kind of stuff?”

“It’s nothing, JJ.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” He took a step closer. “You hiding something?”

“JJ, don’t—”

Before you could stop him, he took the laptop and scanned the screen. His gaze froze on the photos of Larissa, the notes you’d compiled on her life.

“You’ve been looking into my mother?” His voice was quiet, but sharp.