It happens fast.

One minute, you're behind the bar at the club pouring bourbon for a regular with too much money and not enough charm. The next, he’s sneering at you—low and cruel, just loud enough for the table next to him to hear.

“What’s it like going from debutante to dirty martini girl? I give it three months before you’re back begging your mommy to pay for your lip filler.”

Your grip tightens on the glass. The ice rattles. You're ready to launch the drink straight into his smug face when someone beats you to it.

JJ Genrette’s voice cuts through the laughter, sharp and deliberate.

“Try that again,” he says, slow and calm. “Only this time, try doing it with your real voice. Y’know—the one you used when you cried after getting cut from the sailing team.”

The guy stiffens. You freeze. JJ doesn’t even blink. Just stands there in his crisp white button-down and smug little grin like he’s bored of the entire scene.

Later, after the shift ends and you’ve biked home to the Cut, you hear a knock on the screen door of Sarah’s back porch. You shuffle to the door in an oversized shirt and no bra, half-expecting a raccoon.

It’s JJ.

He’s holding a greasy takeout bag, a Gatorade, and a slightly sheepish expression.

“I figured you didn’t eat after the whole bourbon-fueled identity crisis thing,” he says. “Also, this Gatorade is blue. I don’t know your favorite color, but blue felt like a safe choice.”

You stare at him.

“JJ. Why are you here?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. You looked like you needed someone. And I guess I needed someone to care if I showed up.”

You let him in.

He kicks off his shoes and eats fries on your borrowed couch bed like he’s done it a hundred times. His knees knock into yours. He talks about dumb movies and lets the silence be soft. And for the first time in a while, the ache in your chest loosens.