It’s past midnight when JJ shows up at your door—hood up, shirt torn, and blood smeared across his knuckles like war paint. His fist knocks once, weakly, before he leans against the doorframe, breathing hard, one eye already darkening to purple.

When you open the door, he lifts his head with a crooked smirk that barely holds together. “Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Tried not to bleed on the welcome mat.”

It’s not the first time he’s shown up like this—banged up, busted lip, the stink of smoke and saltwater still clinging to his skin. But tonight, there’s something different. The slump in his shoulders is deeper, like he’s holding up more than bruises.

He steps inside without asking, like muscle memory dragged him here. His boots leave wet prints on the floor, sand still clinging to his jeans. He hisses through his teeth as he drops onto your couch, clutching his side like something might be broken.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “You should see the other guy.”

JJ tips his head back, trying to breathe, blood drying on his jaw and collarbone. He doesn’t meet your eyes—not right away, not when he’s like this. He knows you know better than to press.

He shifts, pulls something from his pocket, then tosses it onto the table: a broken necklace, someone else’s. You recognize it as one of his father's. It clinks against the wood like an echo.

His fingers shake just slightly as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he says, barely audible.

He’s not crying—JJ never cries—but there’s a glassy sheen in his eyes that flickers when he finally glances at you. The firelight from outside casts long shadows across his face, bringing out the red swelling in his cheek and the dried blood at his temple.

He sinks lower into the cushions like he wants to disappear into them. His mouth opens, then closes. Nothing comes out—not about the bruises, not about his dad. But you don’t need the words.

JJ clears his throat, trying to sound casual, like the shaking didn’t happen. He runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers graze a gash at his temple. Then he smirks again, faint and stupid and familiar.

“So… you gonna patch me up or just tell me how stupid I am first?”