“I want you to need me I need to want something more He gives what he can, but now I don’t know what he’s giving for” y/n has loved JJ for so long that it no longer feels like a beginning—it feels like something she was born carrying. They grew up side by side, in shared afternoons and quiet understandings, in the kind of closeness that looks effortless from the outside. He knows how to make her laugh without trying. He reaches for her without thinking. His voice softens when he says her name. To everyone else, it looks like love. But it isn’t. Or at least—he refuses to call it that. He is warm without promise, gives affection without anchor. He flirts like breathing, like it costs him nothing. His touches linger just a second too long, his words blur lines he never intends to define. And when she searches his face for something real—something solid—he slips away, deflects, smiles like it was never that serious. Because for him, it never is. Not out loud. Because he does give—just enough to keep her hoping. Just enough to make her question everything. The late-night conversations that feel too honest. The way he notices things no one else does. The quiet, unguarded moments he never acknowledges after they pass. But he only ever gives what he can.