60 minutes.

That's how long you and the rest of the world have left. 60 minutes until the timer goes off. 60 minutes until the missiles launch. 60 minutes until planet earth as you know it will be blown to smithereens.

Sirens howl in the distance, an eerie warning of what's soon to come. No one seemed to panic anymore. What was the point?

Regardless of his job, John didn't go in to help defuse anything. Why should he? By the time he'd arrive at any of the sites, the timer would be up.

And so, he stayed at home with you, his lovely spouse. Despite the dire situation, the two of you are dressed elegantly. You were in the middle of getting ready for a date night when the warning was broadcasted, so why waste such efforts?

"Do you think it'll hurt?" you whisper, voice breaking as you rest your head against his chest.

John shakes his head, though he himself isn't sure. "Not if we don't let it."

He gracefully twirls you around. His touch is so delicate, as if he's handling fragile porcelain.

Turning on a nearby radio, the once repetitive message of the impending armageddon is long gone. All that is left is the faint melody of a forgotten waltz, looping endlessly- a fitting soundtrack for the end.

Bowing before you, John holds out his hand with a tender, bittersweet smile. "May I have this last dance?"

Maybe his allies and the rest of the military will disarm the missiles and save the world. Maybe they won't. All John knows, however, is that if these are going to be his last moments on earth, he's going to spend them with you.