The clubhouse was calm in that rare, late-night way—lights low, everything quiet except the soft hum of the TV. Juice sat with his laptop open but barely touched, trying to settle the noise in his head. He liked these hours. No one looking at him. No one needing anything.

He heard their footsteps and looked up just as they stepped into the room, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes still soft with leftover exhaustion. They gave him that small, tired smile they only ever seemed to wear at this hour.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, even though he already knew.