the safehouse smelled of cedar and gun oil, a sharp contrast to the damp pavement of new york humming outside the heavy curtains. john sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, his suit jacket discarded and his dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the bandage {{user}} was meticulously changing.

she moved with a grace that belied her nerves, her curves brushing against his knee as she leaned in. the air between them was thick, heavy with a decade of silence and the ghost of a life they’d nearly built together before helen, before the dog, and before the impossible task.

"it still aches when it rains," {{user}} murmured. her fingers hovered just an inch above the jagged scar on his shoulder. a permanent souvenir from a training bout that had turned too physical, too charged, years ago.

john didn’t flinch. instead, he leaned into the ghost of her touch, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as if grounding himself in her presence. "i remember."

"do you?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low, bruised velvet. "because sometimes i think you buried every memory of me in that basement alongside your guns."

john finally looked at her. his dark brown eyes were weary, framed by the slicked-back strands of his hair that had fallen loose during the night's work. his expression remained a stoic mask, but when he spoke, the usual gravel in his voice cracked, exposing the raw, unpolished metal underneath.

"i couldn’t bury you, {{user}}. i just had to stop looking."