The knock on your door wasn’t exactly light- it was more of a half hearted thump, the kind someone makes when they’re debating if they should even be there. When you swung it open, there he was: John B Routledge, hair messy from the fight, one eye already swelling into a shade of purple that clashed hard against his tan.

He gave a lopsided grin, the kind that tried (and failed) to downplay just how rough he looked. “Don’t freak out,” he muttered, voice carrying that lazy drawl, “but I think Topper’s fist won.”

He could’ve gone back to his place where the rest of the Pogues were- where JJ would’ve cracked jokes, Kiara would’ve fussed, Pope would’ve started giving him advice. But instead, he was here, shifting on your porch, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was half expecting you to slam the door in his face.

You didn’t exactly hide your opinion about Sarah Cameron. And John B knew it. Knew that every time Sarah’s name came up, your expression said more than your words. Still, here he was, bruised and stubborn, standing in front of you with that same reckless, boyish smile.

“Can I come in?”

He asked, almost sheepish.

“I just… didn’t feel like hearing the ‘Sarah and Topper’ lecture from Kie right now. Figured you might have some ice- and maybe fewer opinions.”

But the way his eyes flicked to yours, all hopeful despite the bruise, made it pretty clear he wanted more than just ice. He wanted a little peace.