Chapter Text
JJ
JJ swears he’s never felt more alive than in the moments just before everything comes crashing down. He’s on top of the world, blissfully unaware that he’s mere minutes from almost losing everything.
He’s standing on top of the stone lion statue in Morocco, the wind ripping through his hair, sand swirling around him in a storm. He’s shouting, his voice echoing through the air as he clutches the Blue Crown—his Blue Crown.
And for the first time, it feels like he’s finally done something right.
He’s redeemed himself. After all the stupid decisions, the stupid ideas and the stupid mistakes that defined him, he’s finally done something that matters.
He did it. It was him this time. He saved Poguelandia. He saved their home.
But in the blink of an eye, it all unravels. Because, after all, he is JJ Maybank—and how could things ever go his way?
One moment, everything feels like a win, and the next, the sand is blurring his vision too much to see. Kie’s hand slips from his in a flash of panic. Then there’s Groff. And just like that, a knife to Kie’s throat.
The Blue Crown—gone—just like that.
He gave it up for her.
And honestly he’d do it a million times over, no hesitation. Because for Kie, it wasn’t a decision—it wasn’t even a choice. She was everything. She was worth every sacrifice.
She was everything.
And now he has her. She’s safe.
And somehow, in that moment, everything feels all right again.
Kie was in his arms, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go, and he held her so damn tight he thought he might break her. But God, he loved her. He loved her so much it scared him sometimes.
He could feel the weight of the ring still in his pocket. The one he’d stolen for her the night everything fell apart and it reminded him of everything—everything he wanted.
Her. A family. Something good.
It wasn’t the time for it yet, he knew. Not with how he’d been acting lately. And they were still young, only eighteen.
He knew Kiara Carrera well enough to know that if he tried to propose now she’d probably tell him no. She’d tell him to get his shit together first, laugh at him with that teasing smile of hers, make an excuse with something about the patriarchy, but deep down, he knew she’d say yes eventually.
So for now, the ring stayed tucked away, hidden in his pocket, waiting. Waiting for the right moment.
When they were back home.
When things were right again.
When he did actually get his shit together and could give her the life she deserved.
When things were perfect.
But then it all went to hell.
He pulled back for a second. He was just about to tell her to run, the words were on the tip of his tongue, about to leave, to run and save them from whatever was coming next.
And then Groff’s voice sliced through the air. JJ’s brain stuttered, his heart pounding with rage, and the words barely registered. He didn’t care what he had to say.
He shouldn’t have cared.
But damn it, his whole body screamed for him to care, even though he knew it was the last thing he should let himself do.
Giving that piece of shit the time of day would be the biggest mistake, and he knew it. He hated him. Hated him more than he had ever hated anyone, and that was saying something. He had grown up thinking Luke was the worst thing that could ever happen to him, but of course, Chandler Groff had to give him a run for his money for father of the fucking year.
So despite everything in his mind telling him to grab Kie’s hand and run like they’re lives depended on it, he turned.
Turned to give his father one last chance…to do what? JJ didn’t know, but he turned around to face him and then—
Shit.
Pain. Out of nowhere.
It was fast, it was sharp, but then it twisted and it burned worse than anything he’d ever felt in his life. It dug deeper, spreading inside him in a slow, creeping fire.
No, no, no, no.
His breath caught in his lungs. His body locked up. He was already shaking.
Something was wrong.
His side. The same spot he hit on the anchor back home. It was worse this time. Deeper. Hotter.
He couldn’t make sense of it at first.
And then.
Shit.
He looked down. The red stain was already blooming, deep scarlet seeping across his shirt, and soaking into Groff’s hand—Groff’s hand. The handle of his knife was still there too, nestled against his ribs, inside him, still twisting and twisting and twisting and–
Shit.
This was bad.
Time moves fast and slow all at once. His head is swimming, his limbs feel weightless and heavy at the same time, and every nerve in his body feels like it's screaming. All of sudden he’s too hot, sweat on his brow but somehow, he’s shivering too. Freezing.
He tries to grab onto something—something steady—but his mind keeps slipping, keeps spiraling. There’s pain, but then there’s something else too.
His breathing. Breathing feels wrong.
It’s wet and ragged and sharp, like he’s trying to inhale through salt water. Every breath feels like it might be his last, and for the first time, he realizes how much he’s taken each one for granted his whole life. Breathing is supposed to be easy. You’re not supposed to have to think about it—cause wasn’t that the point.
But now? Now it’s work. Now it’s failing him.
A new wave of pain rips through him, and he realizes he’s moving—or no, he’s falling.
No. Not falling.
Kie’s got him. She’s pulling him. Dragging him away, down, against a wall. Her hands are pressing against his side, and it’s too much, way too much for him, because the second she applies pressure to the wound, the pain flashes so bright and white that he nearly blacks out.
He gasps—or tries to—but the breath doesn’t fully come. It’s shallow, weak, like he can’t quite get enough air.
Shit. This is bad.
She’s saying something. Her lips are moving, and her voice is there, but it sounds so far away, like she’s underwater, or like he’s underwater.
He fights to hear her, fights through the dull ringing in his ears, and her voice finally reaches his brain and he realizes she’s telling him it’s okay, that he’s okay but her voice is shaking, and she’s got that look—the one people say means she’s pissed, but he knows better.
She’s scared.
And shit, so is he.
His body is shutting down, and it’s happening really fast. His breaths are more wet, more ragged, his toes and fingers are numb now too, and he can feel the warmth leaving him, the life, the blood draining out in thick waves.
But he stops then. Tries to stop it all from happening too fast.
Cause he’s got shit to say. Shit to do.
He fights to slow his breathing, fights to push past the unbearable, gut-wrenching pain, fights to focus.
Focus on her.
Because it’s her after all.
Kiara—fucking—Carrera.
Kie.
His wish.
He lets out a shaky, garbled shush—it ends up a stupid, weak attempt to calm her, like he can somehow make this better when they both know damn well he can’t but it seems to make things worse–cause why does he sound like that? His fingers twitch then before finally reaching for her arm, and he clings to it, grounding himself in the only thing keeping him here still.
He manages a weak, breathless laugh. “M’ here, Kie.”
Then he blinks, tries to clear his head, but his vision is blurring at the edges. His breath is short, shaky and wet, and God, seriously, why does it sound like that? It’s freaking her out and he knows it but–
This is bad.
He knows this is bad.
Her grip on him tightens. “JJ, shut up—just don’t try to talk. Don’t move.”
“Didn’t—” He sucks in a rattling breath, wincing as the pain flares again. “Didn’t get to tell you… m’wish.”
“Don’t. ” Her voice breaks, her eyes darting all over his face like she’s looking for something. Like she’s looking for him. Looking for a way for him to stay with her. “Don’t do that okay. Don’t talk like that.”
“S’you,” he breathes, voice weaker now. Slurring. “Always been you, Kie.”
A sob catches in her throat, and she shakes her head, hard, like she’s trying to shake away his words. “You’re not—don’t do that. That’s not what this is, okay? This isn’t that.”
But it is.
It feels like it is.
It feels like the end.
And shit, he doesn’t want it to be.
He’s terrified.
Because now he understands.
He’d never admitted it to anyone else, but he’s wanted this so badly at different points in his life. When he was desperate for a way out. When Luke would beat the shit out of him. When Kiara went off to Kook Academy and stopped talking to them. When John B and Sarah “died” on the Phantom. Just this past week on the fishing boat after his whole identity and everything he’s worked for went up in flames.
He prayed for this.
But now he really gets it. He understands now. Now he really gets what dying actually means. It’s not just going to sleep. It’s not just darkness or peace or a way out when things get hard—it’s final.
It’s over.
And he’s not done yet. He’s not done, damn it.
He wants to go home. He wants to clear his name, fix things with Kie and John B and Pope and Cleo and Sarah. God—Sarah. He wants to meet that baby so bad. He wants to do it all for them. He wants it for him and for Kiara too. He wants to prove everyone wrong—the whole damn island.
He wants to prove himself wrong.
He wants to be a good man. A better man.
He wants to be the man Kiara deserves. A good husband.
He wants the chance to be a good father—better than he ever had.
But he can’t say any of that. He’s tired. So damn tired. He can’t say any of it at all except—
“I love you.”
His lips feel heavy, his tongue sluggish, but he forces the words out because she has to know. She has to know she is what he’s thinking about.
“Kie, I—” His breath stutters, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s tired and suddenly it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.
“No, JJ, stay with me.” She’s shaking him now, her hands cupping his face. “You can’t—you can’t—.”
He forces his eyes open, just barely. He tries to smile, but it feels weak, broken. A tear breaks free, slipping down his cheek.
“I love you, Kie.”
She’s sobbing now—hysterical, broken—and it shatters him because Kie doesn’t cry. Not like this. Not for anyone.
But she’s crying for him.
And he knows. He knows exactly what this is.
Shit.
He really did do it this time. This really is it. The end.
Her voice rings in his ears, raw and desperate. “I love you too,” and then his vision fades to black.
But just before everything truly goes dark, the last sound he hears is her gut-wrenching, primal scream—“John B…Pope!”
John B
John B hears Kiara’s scream and it’s like his mind refuses to register what’s even happening. Because his name and Pope’s on her lips cuts through the air, raw and jarring and so not Kiara. It’s enough to make his stomach drop and his mind twist violently.
Because he’s heard Kiara scream before—he’s heard her yell, and curse, and fight—but this is different.
This is bad. Worse than bad–and it scared the shit out of him.
His body is moving before his mind can catch up, legs pushing forward, he’s grabbing Sarah’s hand and his heart is hammering so hard against his ribs. But he just needs to get there.
And then he does. He gets there. He turns the corner. Then he sees it.
Sees him.
And fuck.
JJ, slumped against the wall, Kiara crouched beside him with both hands pressed to his side, blood—so much fucking blood—soaking her fingers, her clothes, the stone beneath them.
John B skids to a stop, his body locking up.
No.
No, no, no, fuck.
No.
It's like his brain refuses to process it.
JJ—Survival Instincts of a Cockroach—Can’t Kill A Pogue—Maybank.
His best friend, his brother, the one constant thing he’s had in his life since preschool—when his mom left, when his dad died, when Kie had her kook year or when Sarah broke up with him—JJ’s been there for everything.
Now he’s…fuck…JJ is just lying there, too still, too pale, eyes closed, barely breathing.
Or maybe…he’s not.
No. Fuck. No, he can’t be.
John B’s stomach recoils at the thought, nausea rising in his throat, his hands shaking so badly he doesn’t know what to do with them.
JJ is dying. No. No. Fuck. JJ is dead.
No, shut up, shut the fuck up. Do something.
He drops to his knees next to him, hands hovering over JJ’s shoulders before he grabs his face, patting his cheek, his own breaths coming out in short, panicked waves.
“JJ! JJ, man, come on, wake up. Wake up, bubba. Just wake up. Come on!”
Nothing.
His chest tightens more. Panic claws up his throat.
This isn’t fucking happening.
“No, no, no, no—” He’s shaking his head now, shaking JJ, like that’ll somehow snap him out of it, like that’ll fix this. “Wake the fuck up, man! You hear me?! Wake up!”
JJ doesn’t move.
John B eyes dart wildly, fingers in his hair pulling desperately at the roots, breathing coming faster, harder. He realizes he’s crying.
“Fuck, fuck—oh fuck—”
Sarah is crying too. He can hear her sniffling, and can feel her hands on his arm. He wants to comfort her. Be a man. Be a husband and a father. But fuck. He can’t be any of it right now because it’s JJ. It's fucking JJ. So he yanks away from her—
Because no.
Because this isn’t happening.
Because this is JJ.
JJ, who has been there through everything.
JJ, who has survived so much shit—more than anyone should ever have to. More than even the others even know about.
JJ, who cannot—will not—fucking die here.
Then suddenly Pope is there too, dropping to the ground beside Kiara, shaking as he presses two fingers against JJ’s neck, his other hand pressing harder against Kie’s hand over the wound.
John B watches him, waiting for words that don’t come. Pope just stares, silent, frozen.
John B knows that look—he’s seen it before. The same look from when Pope totaled Kie’s dad’s truck, when he realized he’d lost his merit scholarship for nothing. The same wide-eyed panic from when a girl he liked asked him to the dance in sixth grade or the time in first grade when he forgot his math homework.
That blank stare. That trembling. The wide eyes. Yeah, John B knows it well. Pope is freaking out. Pope is panicking too—but John B is about two seconds away from losing his fucking mind completely.
“Pope!” His voice is hoarse, frantic. “Did you find it?!”
Pope swallows hard, before finally nodding.
“Yeah. Um…yes.” His voice cracks, but he steadies himself. “It’s weak. It’s weak but it’s there.”
John B lets out a breath so sharp it nearly cuts him in half. But it’s not relief. Not yet.
Because JJ still isn’t moving. He’s not awake. He’s barely breathing. And he’s bleeding out right in front of them.
He’s not dead yet—but he will be soon if they don’t do something.
John B’s eyes dart to Pope, Kiara, Sarah but they’re all looking at him, waiting for him to do something, to fix this. But he’s just as frozen as they are.
And JJ still isn’t moving.
John B knows what needs to happen, knows he has to move, but his body won’t catch up. He’s stuck, paralyzed by the reality that if JJ dies—if he really dies—then a part of John B dies too.
It’s Cleo that steps up then, gets them moving, her expression pure steel, strong as a warrior, her voice firm as she starts taking control where the others can’t.
“We need a car. We need to get him to the hospital. Now.”
Rafe, who had been standing nearby in silence, snaps into motion, grabbing Sarah’s hand before sprinting off with her in tow, maybe some desperate attempt to shield his sister from whatever was playing out in front of her.
John B’s eyes drop back down to JJ, gripping his shoulder.
“You’re gonna be okay, man. You hear me?” His voice is shaking, but he doesn’t care.
He needs JJ to hear him.
“We’re gonna get you to a hospital. Just hold on.”
And JJ stirs slightly then, a weak, slurred sound slipping from his lips. It doesn't sound right. Doesn't sound quite like JJ but John B leans in closer still, his heart beating fast enough for both of them.
“JJ, bud…you wanna open your eyes for us man.”
JJ’s eyelids flutter then, barely cracking open. His lips part already cracked like he’s trying to say something, but fuck the the words don’t come out quite right.
“Bree?” It’s garbled, quiet, barely even a whisper but it’s something.
John B grips his hand, squeezing hard. “I’m right here, bud. I’m here.”
JJ blinks up at him, sluggish, dazed. Then his brows twitch and he grimaces in pain letting out a weak moan, but then his lips form something almost like a smile.
“…’Bout… time…”
John B lets out a short, broken laugh, one that turns into a choked sob halfway through.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Always taking my sweet ass time, huh?” His voice wobbles, but he keeps talking, keeps holding on, because he has to..because JJ has too. “You just gotta keep fighting, okay? You’re gonna be fine, dude. Just try to breathe, yeah?”
JJ’s grip in his own hand is weak. Way too weak. John B watches as JJ looks up at Pope and then tries to reach out to Kiara where her hands stay deeply packed into his abdomen but his eyes are already slipping shut, his hand slipping to the ground.
JJ’s breath suddenly starts coming out like a groan, an odd, irregular rhythm. The air seems to gurgle in his chest, too shallow and too fast at the same time. The sound of it sinks deep into John B’s gut like ice.
Kiara’s eyes widened in panic. She’s trembling, her voice trembling as she presses her shaking hands through JJ’s hair, her fingers threading through the mess of sweat-drenched blonde. “Jayje, stay with me,” she whispers, but the words are breaking apart. “You’re okay. You’re okay! I love you. You’re okay.”
Her tears fall, silent at first, then flowing fast, like she can’t stop them. She frantically kisses his forehead, his cheek, his lips, feels like pleading.
John B’s face crumbles and his heart is hammering in his chest. He looks at Pope—who stares frozen, eyes wide with fear, like he’s holding his breath along with JJ.
“What the hell, Pope?” John B croaks, the words coming out thick, as if he can’t even make sense of his own panic. “He’s breathing… that’s good, right?” He asks because he doesn’t know about this stuff but—fuck—Pope does right. He’s studied this stuff for forever.
But Pope doesn’t answer, his expression is distant. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. It’s in his eyes, that look of pure fear.
Fuck.
Kiara’s lips slip to JJ’s forehead, her face now inches from his, pleading for him to stay. But JJ’s breathing is so wrong—so agonizingly wrong—and Kiara’s desperate whispers turn back into sobs.
Then Cleo’s voice breaks through the silence, urgent, frantic. “We need to hurry!” She darts off, calling for help, disappearing in an instant.
John B, Pope, and Kiara stay by JJ’s side, like they’ve always been.
The four of them.
They wait, and that waiting stretches on, the kind of waiting that used to be familiar—the wait for summer break, for a ferry to Ocracoke Island, for the perfect swell.
But this feels nothing like that. Not even close.
Still, they are together, the four of them—their family. That’s what John B keeps telling himself, even if it feels like it’s slipping out of reach.
But then Cleo and Rafe and Sarah burst back into view, gasping for air, their clothes disheveled from the sprint. They’ve waved down a car, a crowd gathered behind them, and the next few moments become a blur.
The rush of bodies, it’s loud, the sound of rushing feet, people shouting, and John B barely registers it all as he stares at JJ, his heart in his throat.
Fuck.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Not like this.
They lift JJ’s limp body and push him into the backseat. Kiara climbs in right after him, her hands gripping his like she’s afraid to let go, her voice a constant murmur, soothing, desperate.
But it’s not enough. Not enough to stop the blood, not enough to stop the coldness creeping into his skin, not enough to stop the blood still seeping through Pope’s fingers as he holds JJ together.
John B barely processes any of it.
He’s on autopilot—throwing himself into the car beside them, his hands still sticky with JJ’s blood, his mind screaming, this can’t be real.
But it is. And it’s too much.
Fuck.
JJ’s body is ice against his side, his breathing slow, wet, and ragged. John B squeezes JJ’s hand, trying to feel some connection, some sign that he’s still there.
He’s not ready for this. Not ready to lose him.
Fuck.
“Just stay with us, bro. Please,” John B whispers, his voice cracking on the last word.
They’re flying down the road, the world blurring around them. The hospital feels too far away, the seconds ticking by like hours. When they finally get there, it’s a blur of motion—hands grabbing JJ, pulling him out of the car, slamming him onto a gurney, rushing him inside with no more than a few words from the doctors.
Kiara’s cries pierce the air, and John B feels it hit him hard. He hears Cleo rushing toward her, but he can’t move. He just stares, frozen, as JJ disappears through the doors.
Sarah and Pope look like they’re still in shock, too numb to do anything but stand there, mouths open, eyes wide, as if they’re waiting for someone to wake them from this nightmare.
John B collapses into a chair by the door, his whole body trembling, the adrenaline starting to fade, leaving him empty. Exhausted. The weight of everything crashing down all at once. He feels JJ’s absence deep, deep in his bones.
He rubs a hand over his face. His voice cracks, low and raw. “Fuck.”
Pope
The waiting room felt suffocating—sterile, unforgiving, and harsh under the glaring fluorescent lights. It felt like the walls were slowly closing in on him, trapping him in this unbearable limbo cause damn it, Pope just wanted answers.
JJ had been in surgery for hours now. They knew that much.
But Pope couldn’t shake the feeling that the longer it went on, the worse it might be. Or was it a good thing that JJ was still in surgery cause that meant he was still alive? Was he supposed to be relieved?
He didn’t know.
What the hell did it matter what he knew? The books, the classes, all the shit he’d spent years learning about—it all felt useless now. It was all so abstract. So far removed from the blood, the fear, the realness of this moment.
None of it actually prepared him for anything.
Especially not this.
JJ—the brother he chose—was still in there. On that table, cut open, fighting for his life in a way Pope never thought he would have to witness.
After experiencing the life leave his best friend little by little—well—he never wanted to see another dead body in a text book or read about agonal breathing ever again.
Pope’s stomach twisted and his chest was tight.
And he just couldn’t make any sense of it. He just couldn’t. Nothing in the world seemed to matter or make any sense anymore.
He can’t wrap his head around the way the plan fell through. For once they weren’t able to make it out the other side unscathed. He can’t process the fact that the loudest, most reckless, most alive person he’s ever known is in the hands of some faceless surgeons in a foreign country, his life dangling by a thread.
JJ has always been untouchable. Stupid, sure. Impulsive as hell. But he always bounced back. Always cracked a joke, always grinned through the pain.
But this—
This is different.
This is bad, damn it.
Pope breathes heavily, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of JJ lying there, limp and pale, blood pooling beneath his fingers.
They can’t lose him.
The silence in the waiting room is unbearable. It’s loud and thick with grief, with apprehension, with the kind of unspoken fear and uncertainty that none of them know how to put into words.
Rafe didn’t stay. Not that Pope expected him to.
He got to the hospital with the rest of them. Laid low in the corner, then once things were calmer, he took Sarah aside.
Pope overheard some of what he said, something about Groff and Lisbon and a hotel. Somewhere to stay if they wanted to go after him.
But none of that mattered now.
Rafe left. Kiara and John B and Pope were hanging on by a thread. Sarah looked like she was about to pass out.
Cleo, though—Cleo is strong. She holds them together when everything is threatening to shatter. She holds him together. She's the strongest out of all of them. He’s always known it but after everything the past few weeks have put them—put her–through he’s realized she's the strongest damn person he's ever seen.
Because the Pogues—the original Pogues, John B, Kiara, Himself.
Damn—they’re falling apart.
So Cleo’s the one who talks to the nurses, the one who keeps them updated, the one who keeps telling them that JJ is gonna be fine, that he’s gonna pull through, that they have to believe that.
Sarah moves between Kiara and John B, holding Kiara when she’s trembling too hard to keep herself upright, rubbing circles into John B’s back when he finally stops pacing the waiting room.
John B is wrecked.
Kiara is wrecked.
He’s wrecked.
They’re broken in different ways, but Pope can see it, can feel it radiating off of them. John B is wild-eyed, desperate, like he’s waiting for someone to tell him this is all just some fucked-up nightmare. Kiara is quieter, her body tense, her breaths short, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that he’s actually afraid might break her own fingers.
And Pope—
Pope just feels so damn lost.
JJ has always been there. Through everything.
The stupid stuff. The reckless stuff.
The loyal stuff.
JJ has always been the heart of the Pogues, the glue that held them together, the only damn one who made everything feel like it was gonna be okay even when it wasn’t.
Hes the one who brought Pope into their group in the first place. Inviting him in kindergarten to sit with Kiara and John B and him during lunch a few weeks into the year.
His first friend. His best friend.
And now?
Now, he’s fighting for his life.
And Pope is sitting here, useless, helpless, waiting.
Damn, he hates waiting.
He drops his head into his hands, swallowing against the lump in his throat, trying to hold himself together.
Because if JJ makes it—when JJ makes it—he’s gonna need them all to be strong.
And Pope won’t let him down.
JJ’s blood.
His best friend’s damn blood.
It’s dried in the creases of his fingers, smeared on his wrists, soaking into his shirt. No matter how much he rubs at it, how much he scrapes at his skin, it won’t come off.
His mind keeps looping back to the moment he pressed his hands against JJ’s stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold his insides inside. He remembers the way JJ’s skin felt beneath his palms—too hot and too cold all at once. He remembers how shallow his breaths were, how his voice turned weak and slurred, how his eyes kept slipping shut no matter how much they screamed at him to stay awake.
Pope sways forward slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs, his bloodstained hands trembling in front of him. He should be doing something, damn it.
He’s supposed to be the smart one. The one who figures things out, who fixes things, who makes a good plan. A plan that works.
But damn.
John B is crashing out, running his hands through his hair, murmuring under his breath like he’s trying to bargain with whatever higher power is out there. Kiara is curled in on herself, Sarah’s arm wrapped around her as she stares at the floor, barely blinking, like she’s afraid to look up and hear the worst.
Pope clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms, as if the pain might ground him, might make this moment less real. But nothing can change the way his stomach twists, the way his breath keeps coming too fast, too shallow.
JJ has always been reckless, has always pushed the line between bravery and stupidity—but he’s always come back. Bruised and bloody, sure, but still standing. Still smirking. Still JJ.
But this time, he hadn’t.
This time, Pope had pressed his hands over his best friend’s wounds, had felt the warmth of JJ’s blood spilling through his fingers, and no matter how hard he had pushed, no matter how many times he had begged him to stay awake, stay with me, don’t you fucking die on me, it hadn’t been enough.
And now, JJ was in surgery, fighting for his life, and Pope—who had always been the one to fix things, to hold them all together—was completely and utterly helpless.
The what-ifs claw at him, relentless…
If he had never taken the gun from JJ… never let them split up in the first place…
If he had tried harder when JJ was spiraling on the boat, when he had seen that look in his eyes and heard him say he’d be doing him a favor letting the cops just shoot him and get it over with. He just sat there thinking they’d all deal with it later. God why hadn’t he done something instead of just watching him leave…
If he had figured out Groff sooner, if he had warned JJ before it was too late…talked to him about it before it went too far…
If he had stopped him from crashing out after the town council meeting, kept him from
Start to get more done yeah we’re gonna be done throwing himself headfirst into every dangerous situation…
If he had just hid the damn gold nugget better…hid it from JJ before he could bet it on the Enduro…
Pope squeezes his eyes shut, breath coming faster and faster. He can’t think like that. He can’t go down that road, because if he does, he’ll drown in it, and JJ doesn’t need that. The Pogues don’t need that.
JJ needs him to believe.
That he’ll be okay. That Pope will get the chance to make things right again.
Pope forces himself to stand. He forces himself to breathe. He forces himself to hope—because that’s what JJ would do.
And if JJ can fight, then so can he.
But damn the air in the waiting room is thick, stale—pressing in on him, making it hard to breathe. His chest tightens, his head pounds, his stomach churns. He digs his nails into his palm, desperate to stay present. To keep it together.
He can’t fall apart.
He won’t.
But then he blinks, and all he sees is blood.
JJ’s blood is still on his damn hands.
Pope’s breath catches again. His vision tunnels and the room tilts.
For the first time in his life, Pope Heyward has no idea how to fix this.
A hand finds his shoulder, grounding him then.
“Come on, baby,” Cleo murmurs, her voice steady, unwavering. She doesn’t wait for him to respond—just pulls him up and leads him down the hall, away from the others, into the nearest bathroom.
Pope grips the sink so hard his fingers go numb and his breath is coming too fast, too shallow. His chest is tight, burning, like there’s not enough air in the whole damn hospital to fill his lungs.
“Pope.” Cleo’s voice is steady, but he barely hears it over the roar in his ears. “Look at me.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t. Every time he blinks, he sees blood. Feels it on his hands, sticky and warm. JJ barely breathing.
He sways, knees threatening to give out.
“Breathe,” Cleo says, firmer this time. “You gotta breathe, baby. Come on, in and out.”
Pope tries, but his throat locks up. A choked sound rips from his chest, and suddenly, he’s falling apart, hands shaking, breath stuttering. He barely registers Cleo stepping in, gripping his shoulders, kissing him.
“It’s still on me,” he rasps when they pull apart. He’s staring at his hands like they don’t belong to him. “I can’t—I can’t get it off.”
Cleo moves fast, yanking a paper towel from the dispenser and soaking it under the faucet. “Here,” she says, grabbing his hands. “Let’s fix that.”
She starts scrubbing, gentle but firm, wiping away the dried blood from his fingers, his wrists.
Pope lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his eyes squeezing shut. “I should’ve done more.” His voice is tight, barely holding together. “I should’ve—I should’ve fixed it.”
“Pope—”
“I know things. I—I know first aid, I know how to stop bleeding, I know how to keep someone awake. But I just—I just—” His voice cracks, and he looks down at his hands, his bloody hands, and swallows hard. “It wasn’t enough.”
Cleo presses the damp towel into his palm, forcing him to hold it. “It was,” she says firmly. “You did enough. You did everything you could. You got him here alive.”
His vision blurs. “I don’t know how to fix this, baby.”
“You don’t have to,” Cleo says. “We got him here. We got him to the doctors. That’s what mattered.”
He shudders, pressing a clean paper towel to his face. Cleo doesn’t let go of him.
“Keep breathing with me,” she says, her voice softening. “In, out. That’s all we gotta do right now.”
Pope inhales slowly, and this time, the air makes it all the way to his lungs.
“That’s it,” Cleo murmurs. “Good. Again.”
He does. And again.
Eventually, the world stops spinning. His hands stop shaking. The weight in his chest is still there, but it’s not crushing him anymore.
Cleo squeezes his shoulder. “You ready to go back?”
He nods, still unsteady but standing. “I love you Cleo.”
By the time they return to the waiting room, Pope’s hands are clean. His breathing is steady. But damn it he just wants his best friend to be okay.
Sarah
Sarah presses a hand to her stomach, trying to stop the nausea rolling through her. It could be the pregnancy, but she knows better. It’s fear.
Pure, unrelenting fear. Running in her veins, through her mind and in the air of the waiting room.
She wants it to stop. But she can’t.
She rubs reassuring circles on John B’s back, feeling the way he shakes under her touch. He hasn’t spoken in what feels like forever, just sits there with his elbows on his knees, fingers gripping his hair like he could just rip it out.
Next to her, Kiara is crying silently. She looks so broken. Every so often, she swipes at her face, like she’s trying to hold herself together, but the tears keep coming.
Across from them, Pope is back, hunched forward beside Cleo. His hands are clean now, scrubbed raw, but he’s still staring at them like he can’t believe anything is real.
No one speaks.
It’s suffocating.
Sarah can’t take it.
She wants it all to stop.
Something’s shifted deep inside her, something she hadn’t felt until recently—a maternal instinct maybe—but it was a strange, overwhelming need to hold them all, comfort them, to make them believe in better.
She’s having a baby. Their baby.
A child that’s going to need all of them. JJ is supposed to be there. He’s the godfather, the uncle who will sneak their kid candy, show them how to have fun, and teach them how to surf before they can even walk.
She needs him to be there to do it.
They all do.
“He’s going to be okay.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it feels too loud in the quiet of the room. She doesn’t know if she believes it for real, but she has to say it. She has to make them believe it. “JJ’s tough. He always makes it.”
Kiara lets out a sharp breath and shakes her head. “Not this time, Sarah.” Her voice cracks, and she clenches her eyes shut like it physically hurts to say it. “Did you see him? He wasn’t—he wasn’t okay. He was dying.”
The word hangs between them, suffocating, final.
And she wants it to stop.
Sarah looks to Cleo.
They are a family, all six of them. Bonded in ways that are deeper than blood. Cleo is like a sister—just like Kiara, just like Wheezie. And JJ and Pope? They’re the brothers she always wished Rafe had been.
But the four of them—Kie and her boys—they’ve had something special long before Sarah or Cleo became a part of their lives. Kiara would talk about JJ in passing freshman year, rolling her eyes from a far when he did something reckless at the boneyard, laughing under her breath when he made some dumb joke in a crowd.
And then, after their falling out, she went back to them.
Back to her boys. Where she started off and where she’d end. They are where she’d always belonged.
Sarah knows, as much as it kills her to think of JJ hurting—or worse, gone—it would destroy Kiara, John B, and Pope in a way she can’t even begin to understand.
They’ve been together since kindergarten.
Thicker than blood.
And right now, as Kiara breaks in front of her, as John B stares blankly at the ground, as Pope paces like he’s trying to outrun the fear lingering in his mind—Sarah realizes it’s up to her and Cleo to hold them together.
Cleo meets her gaze, her dark eyes steady, determined, and Sarah knows—Cleo understands.
They are the only ones holding this family up right now.
So they can’t fall.
She wants it all to stop.
So she can do this.
She can be strong.
For Pope, who has always been the rational one but now looks like he’s about to snap.
For John B, who can’t even bring himself to breath without his brother.
For Kiara, who is losing it right in front of them.
For JJ.
Because when he wakes up—he’s going to need them all in one piece.
So Sarah and Cleo hold it together. Because someone has to. She watches as Cleo pushes to her feet. “I’m gonna find out something.”
No one argues.
Sarah watches as she strides toward the nurses’ station before turning back to John B, smoothing his hair with shaking fingers. His head is still down, his breathing shallow, and when he finally lifts his gaze, his eyes go dark and unfocused.
“I can’t—” his voice cracks, raw and broken. “I can’t lose him.”
Sarah swallows hard, pushing past the lump in her throat, past the fear clawing at her ribs.
“You won’t.” Her voice is firm, steady. She has to be strong because John B can’t be right now. “He’s gonna pull through. He’s gonna watch our baby grow up. Surf again. Marry Kie. He’s gonna die an old man. He’s gonna be with us for the rest of it.” She cups his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “John B, I know it.”
He lets out a choked breath, like he wants to believe her but can’t quite get there.
Sarah’s chest aches.
Pope shifts beside them, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks wrecked—like he’s carrying too much.
Sarah moves to him, gripping his arm. “Pope,” she murmurs. He won’t meet her eyes. “Pope, look at me.”
He does, barely.
“He’s gonna be okay,” she says. “We got him here alive. We're gonna get him through this.”
Pope lets out a shuddering breath and nods, but it’s weak and uncertain.
Sarah looks back at Kiara.
She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even looked at them. She’s just sitting there, eyes locked on the doors leading out to the OR, her hands clenched into fists, shaking.
“Kiara,” Sarah tries, holding out the bottle of water one of the nurses had given them. “Just a sip, okay?”
Kiara barely blinks.
“Come on,” Sarah urges gently. “Just a little.”
Kiara inhales sharply. “I can’t.”
Her voice is small, and then suddenly, she’s breaking again. Her shoulders curl in, her face crumpling, and before Sarah can react, it’s John B and Pope that are there, pulling her in.
John B grips the back of Kiara’s head, pressing her forehead to his chest, whispering something Sarah can’t hear. Pope wraps his arms around her shoulder, grounding her, holding her together even as they’re all falling apart.
Sarah exhales shakey.
They need this. They need each other.
Minutes stretch into eternity. And then Cleo returns.
“Doctor’s coming,” she announces, and suddenly everyone is alert, holding their breath.
The doctor is a middle-aged Moroccan man, his English hesitant as he searches for the right words. Sarah catches the accent immediately, stepping forward, her rusty French filling in the gaps.
“Il a survécu,” he says first.
Sarah doesn’t even realize she’s shaking too until Kiara grips her hand. “He survived the surgery,” she breathes, translating.
The words should be a relief. They should be enough. But they aren’t.
Because everyone is waiting for the but…
The doctor says something else, faster this time, and Sarah struggles to keep up. Her brain is still catching up with the fact that he survived.
But then she hears it. The next words. And the ground tilts beneath her.
“Mais… il y a des complications.”
Sarah doesn’t want to translate. She doesn’t want to say it out loud.
But Pope is already stepping forward, voice wrecked. “What complications?”
The doctor hesitates. Then, softly, he continues, his expression infuriatingly neutral.
“The wound was… grave. Deep. La lame—” He pauses, searching for the English word. “The blade… it was twisted—pulled, both ways.”
His hands mimic the brutal motion, and Sarah feels Kiara tense beside her.
“It tore…” The doctor hesitates, then says something in French—colon transverse, descendant… sigmoide. Sarah’s brain scrambles to keep up.
“It tore through most of his intestine,” she murmurs.
The doctor nods. “Oui. Manqué le rein—barely missed kidney. But there was…hémorragie interne. Beaucoup de sang perdu.”
“Internal bleeding,” Sarah translates.
“Yes. Much blood lost,” the doctor confirms. “We removed several feet of the intestine. Ureter or tube from the kidney to bladder severed. We Repare…repaired, what we could. Stent in the…” He taps his lower side. “Ureter. To help heal.”
Kiara sways slightly on her feet. Sarah isn’t sure she’s breathing. John B is silent. Pope has a wide eyed gaze and he grips Cleo’s hand.
“He is stable now,” the doctor says, but then his mouth presses into a thin line. “Still…critique…uh critical. Next days are très importants…vital. High risk for infection. We monitor closely.”
Pope clears his throat, but his voice still cracks. “But he’s gonna be okay?”
The doctor hesitates. “Il a survécu.”
He glances at Sarah, as if expecting her to explain.
“He survived,” she repeats quietly.
“But—” John B’s voice is raw, desperate. “He’s gonna make it, right?”
The doctor lets out a slow breath. “Nous espérons.”
Sarah’s stomach twists. It’s not the certainty they want, but it’s all they’re getting.
“They hope”
And it’s clear JJ is alive. But this isn’t over. Not even close.
Cleo
Cleo never had a family. Not a real one, anyway.
Not one that stayed. Not one that gave a damn whether she lived or died.
She had people—fleeting, momentary, never permanent. Some were kind, some were cruel, most were indifferent. She learned early that love was a liability, and trust was a weakness.
So she fought—because no one had ever fought for her.
She survived—because no one else was going to save her.
And then she met them.
The Pogues, they called themselves.
They weren’t perfect—far from it.
Fighters. Rule breakers. Survivors. Just like her.
And now, the thought of losing one of them—losing JJ—it ripped something raw and ugly open inside her. It clawed at her ribs, filled her lungs with fire. Because she would kill for them.
Hell—she would die for them.
But right now, she had to lead them.
Because the others? They were breaking. John B was spiraling, Kiara had already lost it, Sarah was trying to be strong for them but with the baby she was barely holding herself together, and Pope—Pope, the one who was always thinking, always rational—was falling apart.
So Cleo stepped up.
It had been hours since the update on JJ’s surgery. He was still in recovery. Still intubated and unconscious. Kiara and John B had gone back to see him—the only ones due to the two visitor policy in the PACU—they’d come back red eyed and barely standing,
They’d stayed and waited ever since. Sitting ducks.
So Cleo stood, squared her shoulders, sucked in a slow breath, and looked each of them in the eye. “We need a plan.”
Silence.
John B let out a hollow laugh. “A plan? What plan?”
Cleo didn’t blink. “We get somewhere safe. We figure out what we’re doing next.”
No one spoke.
Then Kiara shook her head, arms wrapped tight around herself. “What’s the point?” she whispered. “We lost the gold, we lost the cross, lost the Blue Crown. JJ gave it up to save me.” Her voice cracked. “He almost died because of me.”
“That’s not on you,” Sarah said sharply. “That’s on Groff.” Her voice shook. “And honestly? None of it was worth it. Not the money, not the gold. We almost lost one of us. If one of us is dead, none of it is worth it. We never should have come.”
John B exhaled hard, rubbing his hands over his face. “We can’t bring him home empty-handed though,” he muttered. “Shoupe will lock JJ up. And then what? And it’s not like he is going anywhere for a while anyway.”
“Then we lay low?” Kie suggested.
John B shook his head. “No. We go after Groff.”
Sarah looked at him sharply. “Are you serious?”
“He’s in Lisbon. We go now, we end this before he slips off the grid.”
“That’s insane,” Kiara said.
“He deserves it,” Pope snapped. His voice was tight, his hands clenched into fists. “We owe him for what he did to JJ.”
Cleo lifted her chin. “Damn right, we do.”
John B glanced at her, surprised.
Cleo’s voice was steady. “I ain’t saying we run in blind. I ain’t saying we get ourselves killed. But we don’t just let this go.”
Sarah shook her head. “Cleo—”
“Nah,” Cleo cut her off. “You saw what he did to JJ. You heard what he would’ve done to Kiara if JJ hadn’t stopped him. We let him walk away, and what’s stopping him from doing it again? To us? To someone else?”
Silence.
Then John B exhaled sharply. “So what? We kill him?”
Cleo didn’t flinch. “We make damn sure he never touches us again.”
Sarah pressed a hand to her stomach, swallowing hard.
Beside her Kiara stiffened. “Sarah’s pregnant. She needs to take it easy. She can’t be running off into danger. This isn’t worth it. It isn’t what JJ would want us to be doing right now.”
John B hesitated. “But—”
“No buts,” Kiara said firmly. “JJ needs us here. He needs you, John B. And Sarah needs you too.”
John B stared at her, jaw tight.
Cleo crossed her arms. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it?
This wasn’t like before. This wasn’t just a knock to the head, a scrape, a broken arm, something JJ could bounce back from in a few days.
JJ wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
JJ wasn’t coming home anytime soon.
JJ can’t jump up and move onto the next stupid plan.
Cleo lets them sit in the silence. Lets them wrestle with what’s next, lets them feel the weight of it all pressing down. Then she pushes forward knowing they needed something to hold onto…
“I’ll take care of it,” she says, standing.
Pope looks at her. “Cleo—”
“I got it,” she says simply. “I’ll lay low. I’ll find us a place to stay. I’ll figure out where Groff’s hiding.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She turns, stepping out into the night, and for the first time in a long time, she knows exactly where she belongs.
With them.
With her family.
And she’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.
Kiara
Kiara is strong. At least, that’s what she’s always tried to tell herself. What she wants the world to think. She fights, she stands her ground, and she never lets anyone push her around.
But when it comes to him? She’s never been strong. Not really.
JJ.
She melted under his gaze when she was seven years old. His stupid, cocky, gap toothed smile made her weak in the knees by the time she was ten. His arm on her shoulder, her hands in his hair, his jokes directed at her, his protectiveness, his friendship—him—it all turned her into something softer, something vulnerable.
She can admit that to herself now.
Even when she didn’t realize it.
Even when she was too scared to admit it.
It was always JJ who brought her to her knees.
And now?
Now he’s lying in a hospital bed in a foreign country after almost dying in her arms. And she’s not strong. Not even a little. She’s falling apart.
After no news for what seems like days, a nurse steps into the waiting room, speaking in clipped English and a thick accent. “We are removing the tube now.”
Sarah asks the questions no one else can. “Will he be okay?”
The nurse nods but hesitates. “It is difficult. He may struggle. But it will be easier if someone is there. A loved one.”
Kiara’s eyes darted to John B. It should be him.
But everyone else is looking at her.
Oh.
It’s her.
JJ would want her and everyone knows it. It just takes her a second for it to sink in.
She breathes deep and follows the nurse down the hall, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Breathe, Kiara. Just breathe.
The room is dim and quieter than she expected, just a rhythmic deep and the hushed words of the team of doctors and nurses at JJ’s bedside. JJ is still, far too pale, his body limp under a thin hospital sheet. The bandage is huge, peeking out from beneath the hospital gown slung over his body. Wires and IV lines loop into his arms, a monitor beeping in the background.
But none of it compares to the sight of the tube down his throat.
It’s too big—too unnatural—taped to his face like some kind of cruel joke. His cheeks are raw, irritated from the tape and the weight of it. His lips are cracked, dry, and pale.
It’s not him.
It’s JJ—but it’s not.
JJ is never this still. Never this quiet.
Why?
Why did all of this have to happen now—right when things were finally good?
They had taken time.
Time for her to figure out that she loved him. Time for him to believe he deserved it. Time to sink into each other, to get past the awkwardness that came with going from friends to lovers, to trust. Time to learn the details that made this new version of them different—better.
They spent eighteen months figuring it out.
Eighteen months of stolen kisses, of whispered confessions, of JJ rolling his fingers through her curls like it was something precious, something fragile.
Eighteen months of learning each other—like that–until it had gotten good. They were in sync. They were in love. They had gotten over all the shit life thrown in their direction.
They were good.
It was good.
Until it wasn’t.
Until they lost their money, lost their house–JJ lost his identity and they lost their way and now they were here.
Her fingers clench at her side, her breath heavy. She swallows hard, willing herself not to fall apart. Not here.
And then the doctor speaks, sharp and urgent, his voice pulling her from her thoughts.
Arabic.
Kiara struggles to follow, her mind sluggish, her focus shattered. The words feel like they’re slipping through her fingers like sand.
She blinks, trying to piece it together, trying to make sense of it.
Because every second that passes feels like one more moment stolen away.
Then a nurse reaches for her hand, guiding it to JJ’s.
Oh.
She was supposed to hold his hand.
She was here to comfort him. That was her job. A job. A meaning. Something tangible, something she could do when everything else felt so impossibly out of her control.
So she gripped his hand, firm and steady and his palm was warm—too warm—but lifeless in hers.
Her JJ—restless, reckless, always moving, always there—felt gone.
This isn’t him.
Why?
Please—just bring him back to me.
Kiara sucked in a breath, forcing herself to stay steady. Breathe. She could do that. That, at least, was something she could control.
But then the procedure starts.
And it’s horrible.
Kiara isn’t prepared for this. She thought she was. Thought she could handle anything if it meant JJ was going to be okay.
But this—this is worse than anything she imagined.
The doctor explains in broken English, but the only words that stick are pain and discomfort. Pope had tried to prepare them all earlier, saying it wouldn’t be easy, that JJ might panic, that it could get bad before it got better.
But she still wasn’t ready.
JJ stirs before they even touch him.
It starts with the smallest movement—a twitch of his fingers against hers, a flutter of his lashes just seconds after a medication is pushed through the cannula in his elbow—but within a minute his whole body reacts.
The second the doctor disconnects the ventilator, his back arches violently off the bed, a deep, guttural gag ripping from his throat. His chest heaves, ribs flaring as his body fights against the foreign object lodged deep in his throat.
His eyes snap open.
They’re wild and glassy, pupils blown wide with terror, rolling frantically as he struggles to understand—struggles to breathe. His legs kick weakly, arms flailing, hands grabbing at nothing.
Oh.
He’s choking.
He’s fucking choking.
Just let him breathe.
His mouth falls open around the tube, his lips trembling, body twisting in panic. A low, strangled whimper escapes him—muffled, broken—before he starts thrashing.
Kiara tightens her grip on his hand. “JJ” she gasps, voice high and frantic. “JJ, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay—.”
But he isn’t.
He doesn’t see her. Doesn’t hear her. His fingers pull weakly at the bed, his throat straining, veins rising under his pale, sweat-slicked skin as he gags again.
Please make it stop.
The tube shifts—deeper, harsher—and a horrible, wet gurgling sound rattles from his throat.
The doctor barks something in Arabic—too fast, too urgent. A nurse moves to suction his mouth, another two press firm hands to his chest, keeping him down.
JJ jerks violently under their grip, body convulsing.
Because god—no that’s the worst thing they could do to him. Holding him down. She knows he hates that more than anything.
JJ.
Then the doctor pulls the tube
It’s horrific.
JJ’s entire body strains. A strangled, garbled gag rips from his chest, his throat stretching unnaturally as the plastic is pulled out of him. His arms jerk, fingers clawing at the sheets, his head lifting off the bed.
Just breathe JJ. Please.
The sound he makes then—ragged, raw, something that isn’t quite a cry but should be—will haunt Kiara for the rest of her life.
He coughs, his whole body jerking with the force of it. Thick mucus and bile drip from his lips, splattering across his chin, his hospital gown, and the towel a nurse hold up to his lips. His chest rattles with every labored, liquid gasp.
Breathe JJ. Please.
But he’s still not breathing.
Oh God, he’s not breathing.
Why is he not breathing?
Kiara’s vision blurs.
His chest heaves, his ribs straining, but no air is coming in. His throat clicks wetly as he chokes again, body trembling. A nurse moves quickly, pushing a suction tube into his mouth, clearing the mucus and blood, but—
He’s still not breathing.
Oh God.
His lips start to turn blue.
Kiara’s grip on his hand tightens until her knuckles go white. “JJ,” she begs, voice finally breaking. “Please. Please. You have to breathe.”
The doctor snaps another order. A nurse slams a bag and mask over JJ’s face, forcing air into his lungs. His body tenses under the pressure, his fingers twitching, muscles spasming—
Then sagging.
The bag deflates.
Inflates.
Deflates.
Finally—
A thin, reedy breath rattles from his chest.
Then another.
Then another.
Kiara doesn’t realize she’s sobbing until the sound escapes her in a gasping choke.
JJ’s eyes flutter, rolling sluggishly before finally, finally finding her.
And it’s him. It’s JJ.
The same blue eyes that have been her guiding light since kindergarten, the ones that always found her first in a crowded room.
The same blue eyes that filled with tears when he finally let her in at sixteen, letting her see the darkest parts of his life.
The same blue eyes that searched for her at Kitty Hawk.
The same blue eyes that sparked under the moonlight when they laid tangled in a hammock, whispering secrets to each other under the stars in Kildare.
The same blue eyes that crinkled when she made him laugh, that reflected the ocean and the clear blue sky in a way that made her feel real, his.
It was JJ. It was always JJ.
His fingers barely reached for hers—weak, unsteady, but his.
Kiara breathes, squeezing his hand like she never had to let go. Because right now he’s here. And she can be strong enough for both of them if that means JJ is alive.
JJ is alive and he’s here beside of her.
Just keep breathing. Please.