You’d been ignoring him all day.

After the fight—his stupid jealousy, his comments about Enzo, his refusal to admit he was being ridiculous—you’d shut down. No yelling, no storming out, just cold silence. That was worse for JJ. Way worse.

Now it was past midnight, and the apartment was quiet except for the soft sizzle from the pan as you cooked something to distract yourself. You were still in his hoodie, despite being mad, because it was warm and smelled like him—annoyingly comforting.

You didn’t hear him come in until you felt arms snake around your waist.

“Baby…”

His voice was low, muffled against your neck as he buried his face there. You froze, spatula hovering mid-air.

“I hate this,” he murmured. “You ignoring me. It’s actual torture.”

You didn’t respond.

JJ tightened his grip, his whole body pressing against your back. “I know I was being a dick,” he whispered. “I just… I can’t stand the idea of some other guy looking at you like I do.”

“You don’t own me, JJ,” you said, voice flat but quiet.

“I know,” he sighed. “I know. I just—I get crazy when it comes to you, alright? And I hate when I mess things up. Especially with you.”

He sounded nothing like the cocky, reckless JJ everyone else knew. No smirks. No sarcasm. Just raw, aching need.

“I miss you,” he added softly. “Even if you’re in the same room… if you’re not talking to me, not looking at me—I feel it. And it sucks.”