John Constantine lit a cigarette with the kind of slow, deliberate calm that only came after surviving something you probably shouldn’t have. His knuckles were still raw, his coat torn at the sleeve, and his ego bruised just enough to sting—but not enough to keep him quiet.

He leaned against the doorway of the hotel room, watching her sleep in his bed like she owned the place. Typical.

“You know, most people have the sense not to kiss the same person who tried to hex them into the bloody floorboards three hours earlier,” he muttered, taking a drag. “But here I am. Daft as ever.”

He walked to the edge of the bed, boots thudding softly against the warped floorboards. The room smelled like rain and magic—volatile, electric. Just like her. “I should hate you,” he continued, almost to himself. “Should’ve walked away back in Dublin. Or Cairo. Or that time you set my coat on fire in Berlin—still haven’t forgiven you for that, by the way.”

She shifted slightly, arm draped over the empty half of the bed like she expected him there. Like she wanted him there. He sighed and sat on the edge, flicking ash into a conjured tray. “But no. Every time I think I’ve shaken you off, you show up again—louder, sharper, and more annoyingly irresistible.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, the curve of her back beneath the sheet, the faint mark of a sigil she’d burned into his shoulder hours before still tingling under his skin.

“We’re a disaster,” he said softly. “But bloody hell… I’ve never wanted anything more.”

And with that, John stubbed out the cigarette, shed the weight of the world with his coat, and climbed into bed beside the only person who could break his heart and save his soul in the same night.