the cabin smelled of antiseptic and cedar, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of blood that always seemed to follow him. outside, the new york woods were silent, but inside, the air was heavy with everything they weren't saying.

john sat on the edge of the wooden table, his dark suit jacket discarded on the floor like a shed skin. his white dress shirt hung open, ruined and stained, revealing the broad, expanse of his chest and the fresh, jagged tear across his shoulder.

{{user}} leaned in close, her breath warm against his skin. she was soft where he was hard, a grounding presence in a life made of sharp edges. her fingers, usually so steady, had a slight tremor as she pulled the needle through his skin.

"you have a habit of making things difficult, john. this is the third time this month," she murmured, her voice thick with a fatigue that had nothing to do with the late hour.

john watched her. he didn't look at the needle or the blood; he looked at the way her hair fell across her shoulder and the focused line of her brow. he was a man of few words, but the silence between them was becoming a weight he couldn't carry alone.

"maybe i just like the company," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the small space.

{{user}}'s hand trembled more noticeably then. she focused intently on tying the knot, her movements clinical yet infused with a desperate kind of care. "don't say things like that. not when you know you're just going to leave when the stitches come out."

she was right. he was a ghost, a man tied to a world that didn't allow for staying. the high table, the debts, the gold coins. it was a cycle that only ended in the ground. yet, looking at her, the stoicism he wore like armor felt brittle.

"ask me to stay," he countered. it wasn't a command; it was a plea disguised as a challenge.