it was 12 a.m. in the outer banks, the house eerily quiet with your parents away on vacation. you had been fast asleep, wrapped up in a blanket of calm, until the faint creak of the front door jolted you awake. panic gripped your chest as you sat up, heart pounding, every horror story flashing through your mind. grabbing the nearest object for defense—a lamp from your bedside table—you stepped out of your room, cautiously moving toward the source of the noise.

but when you turned the corner, ready to scream or swing, you froze. it was jj maybank, leaning heavily against the wall of your living room, his shoulders slumped and his head hanging low. you blinked, the tension in your body melting into confusion and worry as you realized it wasn’t a stranger—it was him.

“hey, uh… do you have some weed or something?” he slurred, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes. “i just really need to—well, y’know.”

his voice cracked slightly, and that’s when you noticed the state he was in. his hair was damp with sweat and sticking out in every direction, his shirt clinging to his skin as if he’d been running or fighting. his usually sharp blue eyes were glassy, rimmed with red, and you could tell he’d been crying. the sight of him—so messy, so broken—hit you harder than you expected. whatever had happened, it was written all over him.