Jarah one-shots

Sarah had been noticing it for weeks—how John B had grown quieter, how the spark that usually lit up his eyes had dulled to almost nothing. In the first days after they got back from Morocco, after Groff got what he deserved and the dust began to settle, John B had held it together. He'd stuck close to her side, hugged Pope tight when he needed it, let Kiara lean against him in those heavy silences that none of them could fill.

But then, slowly, everyone began to pick up the pieces in their own ways. Kiara split her time between Poguelandia 2.0 and her parents' house, clinging to routines that didn't quite fit anymore. Pope buried himself in applications, trying to plan for a future JJ would never see. Even Cleo, who was still figuring out how to navigate this kind of grief, stayed steady for Pope's sake.

John B, though, seemed to sink further. The mornings stretched longer before he got out of bed, and some days, like today, he didn't get up at all. It was just past 11:00 a.m., and he was still in their room—lying there with his eyes open but unfocused. The sun had climbed high enough to break through the thin curtains, streaking light across the sheets. John B barely seemed to notice.

Sarah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her growing bump. The baby moved beneath her ribs, a gentle reminder that there was still life—still something to fight for. Her voice was cautious when she finally spoke.

"John B," she started softly, but there was no reaction. She stepped closer, her bare feet sinking into the worn, sun-warmed carpet. "When was the last time you ate?"

For a moment, it seemed like he hadn't heard her. His gaze stayed locked on the ceiling, expressionless, heavy.

"John B?" she tried again, her voice a little sharper, a little more desperate.

His eyes flickered, a brief glance toward her before settling back into that vacant stare. He didn't answer.

Sarah's throat tightened. She knew grief—she knew the way it could hollow a person out, leave them wandering through days that blurred together. But this wasn't just grief. This was a kind of absence, a piece of John B gone with JJ that she didn't know how to reach.

She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "Please, just... talk to me," she whispered. "I'm right here."

But John B didn't move, didn't blink. It was like she wasn't there at all.

Sarah eased herself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her. Carefully, she reached for John B, her fingers brushing his shoulder before she guided his head onto her lap. He didn't resist, but he didn't help either—just let her move him like a doll, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

Her fingers threaded through his messy, sun-bleached hair, the strands tangled and damp with sweat. He smelled like salt and sleep, like days spent under the covers instead of out on the water where he used to feel most like himself. She knew he hadn't showered in a while—knew that his days had become this endless, blurred stretch of sleepless nights and hollow mornings.

John B's eyes stayed open, unfocused, rimmed red from crying. They had been for weeks. The first few times she'd seen it, it had broken something in her—John B, who always seemed unbreakable, who faced storms and shootouts and all the worst the world could throw at him with that reckless, unwavering courage. But now, when the danger was over, when they should have been safe, he was crumbling.

His eyes flicked upward, meeting hers for just a second before sliding away, guilt carving harsh lines into his face. He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want her to see just how shattered he felt—how empty and exposed and wrong. Sarah could feel it, the way he withdrew further each day, hiding behind that silence.