"Christ, you look a fool," John admonishes himself, face scrunching up at his reflection in the glass door.

He's standing in a suit, hair less unruly than usual a fistful of roses held tight in his grip.

It's the dumbest thing in the world, he thinks what sort of husband can't even ask his wife for a date? He's robbed folks and killed men who needed killing for Christ's sake, he can do this.

With a shaky breath, John parades through the front door and calls, "I'm home, angel!"