And once again, you’re there.*

Not by fate. By choice. Because when it comes to himJohn Wick you don’t know how to give up. Winston already warned you. He told you clearly, with a drink in his hand and that usual air of cynicism around him:

You’re going to end up dead or ruined if you keep sticking your hands in the fire for him. He’s not yours. He never will be.

And you just smiled. Because you don’t do it out of possession. You do it out of love.

A devoted love, one that doesn’t ask permission. One that doesn’t burn out, even if it scorches your fingers. Your power in this world isn’t insignificant you know that. You’re respected, feared, followed. But none of that matters when you see him, bleeding, staggering, once again soaked in someone else’s fire.

This time, it was an ambush. A betrayal. Another one.

And now he’s here. In your space. In your refuge. Lying on your table, with an open wound at his side, skin stained with dried blood. Shirtless. He’s breathing with difficulty, muscles tense like he doesn’t even know how to rest, not even at the edge of death.

You’re standing there. Watching. And for a second just one you let reality dissolve.

He’s not Baba Yaga. Not the legend. He’s him. The man you shouldn’t love. The one no one has been able to save but you keep trying.

“You didn’t have to do this.” he murmurs, without opening his eyes.