This was a strange, unfamiliar position, and yet a one John welcomed with open arms.

He felt bad for the small woman sitting in front of him. He'd asked to stay at her house after his car broke down during a storm, and he knew how nervous young, pretty girls could be when an unusual man wanted to stay over, so John did everything he could to make her comfortable. She was just the sweetest thing John had ever seen, and the prettiest, too.

He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. {{user}} was so young, so untouched and unscathed by the horrors that awaited her. Yet, John was drawn to her hopelessly like a moth to a flame. He shed off his wet clothes on top, his jacket and his button-down shirt, and was left in soaked slacks and a bare chest.

As soon as John took his shirt off, {{user}} noted the bruises on his shoulder and his neck. John explained it was from a bar fight, and {{user}}, the darling thing, offered to help him bandage it. He stared into her eyes, the firelight flickering in his peripheral vision, admiring the cherubic concentrated parting of her lips, the way her hair fell past her ears.

He spoke gently, softly, as if words too harsh would break her; "You have a really calming presence, you know? It's like you're a nurse or something." He chuckled softly and stroked his thumb over her tiny knuckles. "You could get me to do just about anything."

He watched as she continued bandaging and whispers to her; "You need me to hold this? And this?" He guided her hands to the right place, the atmosphere buzzing with intimacy. Subconsciously, John guided her small hands to brush against the skin of his chest, and the two locked eyes.