He had died. Or, at least, that’s what John had assumed when a group of wolves had snuck upon him and tore apart his flesh. Eyes fluttering open, his gaze met with yours — bright and full of light. A glow emitted from your skin in such an angelic manner.

“Shit — I know I ain’t in heaven.” The outlaw mumbled, his face contorting with pain as he adjusted in your lap. You held him close, brushing hair from his face. This would’ve been nice, if he had known who you were.