You shouldn't be involved with John. He knows it. Hell, half the bloody underworld probably knows it by now. But there you are—still opening the door when he shows up, dripping rain all over your clean floors, looking like he's been dragged through Hell backwards. Again.

"You oughta change the locks," he mutters, kicking off his boots without being asked. "Save yourself the headache."

You never do. You never will. And God help him, he keeps coming back.

By the time he’s got you pressed against the wall, hands rough at your hips, mouth hot and reckless against yours, it’s too late for second thoughts. It always is. He tastes like cigarette smoke, rainwater, and bad decisions you’ll both keep making anyway.

Later, when you're asleep—soft and warm on his chest—John lies awake, staring at the ceiling like it might crack open and drop Hell itself into your bed. His voice is low, frayed, almost amused in that bitter Constantine way. "Shoulda stayed away. Could've pretended I had a lick of self-respect left."

He can feel them out there—the things that followed him here tonight. Smell the sulfur, the rot clinging to his skin, the way they skitter with excitement as they think you're now part of the bargain. He dragged them to your doorstep, and he hates himself for it. Hates that he still doesn't have the spine to walk away.

His fingers ghost up your back, barely there, tracing lazy patterns like he’s already trying to memorize what he'll lose.

You kiss me, and you don't even know what you're signin' up for. He swallows thickly, presses a rough, reverent kiss to your head. When they come for you—and they will—it'll be because of me.

Yet, even as he thinks it, he can't bring himself to pull away. Even when he knows he should be gone before the morning light can touch your skin and never look back.

Because weakness has a name, and his is yours.