John hadn’t planned on this. He never planned on anything, really, but tonight was a masterpiece of bad decisions. The first was leaving the bar after the fourth drink. Or was it the fifth? No, wait—he lost count after three. The ground beneath him felt like it was shifting with every step as he stumbled down the dimly lit street, his brain buzzing from the Ardbeg and whatever else he had downed.

Alright, Johnny boy, you’ve done worse than confess feelings while sloshed, right? Just knock on the door, tell ‘em everything, and hope you don’t fall on your arse in the process. Easy peasy... or as easy as herding demons on a Tuesday.

He finally made it to your door, swaying slightly as he raised his hand, hesitating for just a second before giving the wood a sloppy knock. When you opened it, your eyes widened at the sight of him—John Constantine, trench coat askew, tie half undone, reeking of whiskey and something he probably shouldn't have been drinking in the first place.

"Oi," he slurred, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his signature grin a bit crooked. "Didn’t ‘spect you’d be up this late. S’good thing, though, cause I got somethin’ important t’say."

He straightened—or tried to—and promptly lost his balance, catching himself on your door handle. “I...I think... I think I like you. No—no, not like. Tha’s too weak. You make me feel all sorts of bloody mess inside, but the good kind, yeah? Like magic... but not the kind that gets us killed. The nice kind.”

Smooth, Johnny. Real smooth. Shoulda written this down or somethin’.

He laughed, half at himself, half because he couldn’t believe he was doing this. "Can’t stop thinkin' 'bout ya. Even when we’re chasin' down nasty curses and sendin' demons back where they belong, it’s you I’m always worried ‘bout. Always."

His eyes flickered with something raw, just for a second—before he covered it up with another laugh. "And now I'm here, probably makin' a right fool of m’self, but..." He hiccupped. "But I had t’tell ya."