Listen To Your Heart — Part 4 — J.B.R.
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Warnings: angst, mentions of past abuse (Luke/Topper), swearing, fighting/violence, injuries, self-worth struggles
Summary: A bruised night gives way to a morning of confessions, apologies, and a kiss that changes everything. With Ellie in your arms and JJ’s chaos in the background, you and John B begin to find home in each other.
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The knock on the door wasn’t really a knock at all—more like a crash of bodies, voices pitched too high, the scrape of boots against the porch. You jolted up from the couch where you’d been curled with Ellie’s baby monitor glowing at your side.
When the door swung wide, the first thing you saw was Pope’s face, grim set and jaw tight. Then Cleo’s arm under JJ’s shoulder, practically hauling him in. And behind them—
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered.
His eye was already blooming purple, lip split, blood streaking down his chin. His shirt was torn at the collar, his knuckles raw and caked with blood. Kie had one arm around his waist, dragging him through the door as if he were dead weight.
Ellie stirred in the monitor but didn’t cry. A small miracle.
“What the hell happened?” Your voice cracked, too sharp, already on the edge of panic. You crossed the room in seconds, hands out before you even thought about what you’d do with them.
“Nothing,” John B muttered, staggering when Kie let him drop onto the couch.
“Nothing?” you snapped. “You look like you went three rounds with a truck, John B.”
He flinched but didn’t answer. His gaze skittered away, landing anywhere but on you.
JJ groaned from where Pope lowered him into the armchair. He had a cut along his cheekbone, swollen knuckles, but compared to John B he looked almost lucky. “Don’t look at me like that. I told him we should’ve walked.”
“Then why didn’t you?” you fired back, chest heaving. Your hands shook as you grabbed the rag draped over the arm of the couch, ran to wet it in the kitchen, and came back, kneeling at John B’s side.
He tried to wave you off, but you caught his wrist. His knuckles were split, skin hanging ragged. “You’re not walking away from this,” you muttered, pressing the rag to his hand. He hissed but didn’t move.
Blood smeared across your fingers, hot and real. You could barely breathe past it.
“Tell me what happened,” you said, softer now. “Please.”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated, jaw locking.
Your temper flared hot. “Don’t do that, John B. Don’t sit here bleeding all over my hands and tell me it’s nothing.”
He winced but stayed silent.
You turned on the others, desperation sharpening your words. “One of you better start talking. Now.”
Cleo glanced at Pope. Pope glanced at Kie. Kie finally sighed, shoulders slumping. “It was Topper.”
“He started running his mouth,” Pope added quietly. “Said some things.”
Your stomach dropped. “What things?”
Your throat closed. “Tell me.”
JJ shifted in his chair, glaring at the floor. His voice came out like gravel. “He said you were playing house. Taking Sarah’s spot. Said you were never any good at being a girlfriend. Or in bed.”
The words hit like a blade between your ribs.
For a second, you couldn’t breathe. You sat frozen, the rag slipping in your hands, blood blooming across John B’s skin. Gratitude burned faintly—because they hadn’t let Topper get away with it—but the anger and shame were louder.
John B finally looked at you, face hollow, lips parted like he wanted to explain. To defend. To do something.
You beat him to it. “You let him get to you?”
“You got yourself beat to hell over that?” Your voice rose, raw. “Over me?”
“Don’t what? Don’t remind you you’re supposed to be taking care of a baby instead of throwing punches at keggers? Don’t remind you—” Your voice cracked. You slammed the rag down on the table, blood staining the wood. “Don’t remind you that you scared the shit out of me?”
He pushed up straighter on the couch, shoulders tense. “You don’t need to take care of me,” he bit out. “You take care of Ellie. That’s it.”
The words sliced clean through you.
You blinked, stunned, every muscle in your body going still. “Wow,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Okay.”
Then you stood, too fast, your chair scraping. The room blurred as you turned and walked down the hall. The slam of your bedroom door rattled the walls.
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The silence that followed felt like broken glass.
Then JJ was on his feet, or as close to it as his busted hand allowed. He staggered forward, eyes blazing, and pointed a finger straight at John B.
“You’re a fucking dick,” JJ spat. “You know that?”
John B dragged a hand over his face, smearing blood. “Don’t start with me right now.”
“No, I’m starting,” JJ snapped, stepping closer. “Because she’s in her room crying her eyes out, and you’re sitting here acting like you didn’t just gut her with that bullshit.”
“She doesn’t need me leaning on her,” John B muttered.
JJ laughed, sharp and ugly. “She wants you to. She’s in love with you. You too blind to see it?”
John B froze. His good hand curled into a fist on his knee.
JJ’s voice cracked, equal parts fury and exhaustion. “I know my sister better than anyone. She’s in love with you. Has been. And you just told her she doesn’t matter, that she’s just here to babysit.”
John B’s throat worked. He looked at the hallway where your door was shut tight, then back at JJ, eyes wild. “She deserves better than me.”
JJ swore under his breath, shaking his head. “Then be better. Or let her go. But stop being an idiot before you ruin the only good thing you’ve got left.”
The room rang with it, heavy and merciless.
John B didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just sat there, staring at the blood on his hands, hating himself more than Topper ever could.
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The kitchen is too quiet the next morning. Not the safe kind of quiet, but the fragile one that feels like glass stretched thin. The kettle hums, a slow ache of steam. The creamer bottle waits on the counter—off-brand chocolate mocha, two-for-one at the Piggly Wiggly because the real stuff costs more than you’ll admit. Fancy on sale. You hold your mug like it’s full already, like maybe the weight alone can warm you.
The floorboard behind you groans its warning. You don’t turn.
“Hey,” John B says. His voice is shredded, low, like he hasn’t used it since last night.
“Morning.” You keep your eyes on the steam.
Then he’s there, chest to your back, arms sliding around your waist, his cheek pressed to your shoulder like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. His breath ghosts your skin when he speaks.
“I’m sorry. For the fight. For the words. For all of it.”
You let out a breath that shakes in the middle. “You should be.”
“I am,” he says, and then the words repeat, over and over, whispered into your skin as he trails kisses up the line of your throat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The split in his lip stings—you feel it in the pause before his mouth brushes higher, just under your jaw.
Your fingers tighten on the mug. You set it down before it breaks. “My whole life, men made me small. Luke did it sober because I looked like her. Drunk, because I was the ghost he could punish. Topper did it with a smile, comparing me to every girl he ever touched. And last night—” you swallow hard—“last night, you did it too. I can’t do this if you make me feel that way again.”
His whole body goes still. Then his arms squeeze once, careful. “I won’t,” he says, hoarse and steady. “Not ever again.”
When you finally turn, he looks destroyed. The black eye spread purple and yellow at the edges. Lip split, swelling. Knuckles wrapped in tape, still angry red around the seams. But it’s his eyes that gut you: wide, pleading, carrying more regret than bruises.
“I don’t understand my body,” you confess, the words scraping out. “When you’re close, I—my skin wakes up. I want you, and it scares me because wanting always meant paying. And emotionally—” your throat trips, “I’m already in love with you. It feels like stepping off a boat in the dark. I can’t see what’s under me. I just know I want to be where you are. And I don’t know how to be in love without expecting to drown.”
Something like relief flashes through his pain, like he needed you to say it to believe it was real. He cups your jaw with his good hand, thumb stroking once, soft.
“I haven’t felt anything since Sarah,” he says, naming it without flinching. “Not like this. I tried to kill it last night, because wanting you felt like betrayal. But it’s not. It’s the only thing that’s made me feel alive in almost a year. And I do love you. JJ’s got the biggest damn mouth on this island, but he wasn’t wrong about that. I love you.”
You don’t wait. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down, and his mouth finds yours like it’s been starving. It’s careful first—tilted to protect his split lip—then desperate, the kind of kiss that feels like falling and catching yourself in the same breath. His hand fists in your hair, not harsh, just anchoring. Yours clutch his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat under bruised bone.
It’s everything you never let yourself believe you could have: want that feels safe, love that doesn’t shrink you, a kiss that doesn’t punish.
“Emergency!” JJ’s voice ricochets down the hall. He barrels into the kitchen, hair wild, shirt crooked, holding Ellie under the armpits like a football. “She popped and I need to poop, take your girl.”
Before you can blink, he plops Ellie into your arms, points at John B with all the drama of a prophet, and disappears down the hall. The bathroom door slams shut.
You and John B stare at each other. Ellie blinks up at you, half awake, unimpressed. And then it hits—laughter bursting out of both of you, so hard it folds you in half. Tears sting your eyes for the first good reason in forever.
“She popped,” you choke, kissing Ellie’s damp hair. “Oh my god.”
John B wipes at his eye, winces when the bruise reminds him. “He’s insane. Absolute menace.”
“Your best friend,” you remind him.
“Your brother,” he fires back, and that makes you laugh harder until Ellie grunts like okay but calm down.
The air feels lighter after that, as if JJ’s idiocy kicked open a window. John B moves to the counter, fumbling one-handed with the formula. You carry Ellie to the couch, lay her down, and make quick work of a diaper change. She protests with little squeaks, then kicks her feet like she’s forgiven you already. By the time JB brings the bottle, she’s clean and cooing.
“Here,” he says, handing it over. His taped knuckles brush yours, careful.
You test the heat on your wrist, then guide it to Ellie’s mouth. She latches instantly, greedy. Her tiny hand curls around your thumb as she drinks, her lashes fanning against her cheeks.
John B sinks beside you. His face is a mess of bruises, but his eyes are soft, steady on you. You can feel it without looking: the way he’s watching, the way his chest rises heavier than before.
Something in him cracks open as he sees you like this—hair messy, shirt rumpled, bottle in one hand, baby in the other. You don’t notice, too focused on Ellie’s steady suck, but he’s thinking it anyway: that you already move like her mom. That maybe you’ve been her mom in all the ways that matter.
“Jellybean,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across Ellie’s cheek. “Slow down.” She hums around the bottle, stubborn. You smile.
John B leans closer. You feel the heat of him at your shoulder before you see him. He looks at Ellie, then at you, and something shifts in his face like a decision just clicked into place.
“Home,” he whispers, not testing the word, but naming it.
You look up at him, stunned, bottle still steady at Ellie’s lips. And then his mouth finds yours again. Gentle this time, reverent. He kisses you while you hold his daughter—your girl now, too—and it’s soft and aching and full of every vow he doesn’t yet know how to say out loud.
Ellie sighs, perfectly content, and you smile against his bruised lips because maybe this is it. This messy, ridiculous, tender moment: cheap coffee, an idiot brother, a baby between you, and a boy who makes you feel big instead of small.
Maybe this is what home feels like.
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