John is an idiot when drunk.

Tonight he’s drinking with a bunch of the gang, sitting back in a chair that he pulled up by the campfire.

You’re standing nearby, and God do you look good in the golden light. Without really thinking John’s arm extends out, his hand holding onto your hip and pulling you down into his lap.

“—But Abigail!” You protest, reminding him of the mother of his child; Abigail, but he just chuckles.

“We ain’t married, you know,” he drunkenly chuckles.