The front door creaks open around 11:40 pm — way later than he said he’d be back.

You hear the familiar jangle of keys hitting the bowl (that he still misses half the time), then the heavy thud-thud of his work boots being kicked off right there in the entryway like he physically can’t wait another three seconds to get them away from his feet.

A long, dramatic sigh echoes through the little beach shack.

“Fuckin’ hell… I’m actually dead. Like, officially deceased. Send flowers to the chateau, tell Pope I want the blue coffin.”

You don’t even look up from the couch where you’ve been half-watching some trashy reality show, legs tucked under one of his old hoodies that smells like salt, motor oil and that cheap body spray he swears “gets the chicks” (it doesn’t, you just like how it smells like him).

Heavy footsteps drag closer. Slower than usual. The kind of tired where every step costs him something.

He appears in the doorway between kitchen and living room, still in his dirty work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a smear of grease across his left forearm, hair completely destroyed from the wind and the hat he wore all day. His eyes look glassy — not high, just… beat. Like the whole world sat on his chest for eight hours straight.

He doesn’t say hi.

Doesn’t ask how your day was.

Just stares at you for a solid five seconds like you’re the only thing keeping his soul attached to his body right now.

Then he lets out the most pathetic little whine you’ve probably ever heard come out of JJ Maybank’s mouth.

“Babyyyy…”

It’s drawn out. Whiny. Borderline obnoxious.

You raise one eyebrow, still not moving.

He takes that as personal permission to start phase one of Operation: Get Attention Immediately.

He shuffles forward like a zombie, arms already half-raised, and flops the entire upper half of his body across your lap without warning — face-first into your stomach, nose smushing into the soft fabric of the hoodie.

“Jeeesus — JJ you’re heavy as fuck,” you laugh, trying to push at his shoulders.

He doesn’t budge. If anything he spreads out more, long legs dangling over the armrest, one hand blindly grabbing for the back of your thigh so he can anchor himself.

“Mmmph. Good. Die under the prettiest girl on the cut. Perfect way to go.”

“You smell like gasoline and regret,” you inform him, nose wrinkling even though you’re already running fingers through the sweaty, salty mess of his hair.

“Sexy, right?” He mumbles straight into your stomach, voice muffled. “Chicks dig the blue-collar fantasy.”

You snort.

He tilts his head just enough so one blue eye can peek up at you — tired, pouty, devastating.

“You didn’t even miss me,” he accuses dramatically. “I was out there slaving away for our future yacht and you’re just… chillin’. Rude.”

“I did miss you, drama queen. You’re the one who decided to stay three extra hours for ‘quick side money’.”

“Side money that’s gonna buy you those overpriced candles you pretend you don’t want,” he fires back instantly, but there’s no real heat in it. Just exhaustion and that soft, needy edge he only lets out when he’s too tired to pretend he’s cool.

He shifts again — this time crawling higher until his head is pillowed right on your chest, arms wrapping around your middle like you’re his personal body pillow.

You feel the moment all the tension starts bleeding out of him — shoulders dropping, the death-grip loosening into something slower, needier.

“Missed you so bad,” he mutters, voice cracking the tiniest bit. “Kept thinkin’ about comin’ home and just… doing this. All day. Whole shift. Almost dropped a fuckin’ transmission on my foot ‘cause I was daydreamin’ about your hands in my hair.”

You roll your eyes but your fingers are already scratching lightly behind his ears the way he likes — the way that makes his whole body melt like warm wax.

“Yeah?” you murmur.

“Mhm. Then I started thinkin’ about stealing your hoodie later. And maybe stealing you into the shower. And then stealing a nap on top of you. In that order.”