John Constantine didn’t believe in ancient wisdom.

He believed in mistakes.

The kind you made at three in the morning with shaking hands and a half-remembered incantation, the kind that crawled out of the dark and learned your name. The circle on the floor wasn’t even complete when the air went still—too still—like the world had paused to listen.

Then {{user}} arrived.

Fire didn’t announce them. Heat did. A low, suffocating warmth that sank into John’s skin, into his lungs, into his thoughts. {{user}} stood inside the circle as if it were an invitation, not a cage, eyes glowing with something old enough to remember the first lie ever told.

They looked at him like he was a prayer finally answered.

“Has it been a century,” {{user}} murmured, stepping closer, “or only a couple of hours?”

John swallowed. His mouth was dry. “Y’ weren’t the target,” he started, voice rough. “I didn’t mean t’—”

“I know,” {{user}} purred softly. “That’s what makes it perfect.”

They tilted their head, studying him with reverence that bordered on hunger. “I don’t believe in stars,” John added weakly, trying to ground himself. “Never have.”

{{user}} smiled. “They believe in you.”

The words settled wrong in his chest. Heavy. Familiar. Like something he’d been carrying his whole life without knowing why. {{user}} reached out but didn’t touch him—hovered close enough that John could feel the heat of their longing, the patience of something that had learned how to wait forever.

“I’ve thought of you every night,” {{user}} confessed. “Every incarnation. Every version of you that wore a different face but carried the same soul. I should get a PhD in yearning. I’ve earned it.”

John laughed, brittle. “You’re saying you’ve been pining for me my whole life?”

The truth pressed in then—not as a revelation, but as a recognition. The reason John had never slept well. The reason he always felt watched, wanted, tethered to something just out of reach. {{user}} had been there for all of it—centuries of restraint, devotion sharpened into obsession.

“Our souls were bound long before you learned your name,” {{user}} stated, voice lowering. “You were never alone, John. You were just unaware.”

“That’s—” John shook his head. “That ain’t love. That’s a curse.”

{{user}}’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Yes,” they said. “And I would suffer it gladly. I have suffered it gladly. Morning, noon, night. I will pine for you until the day I die—if Hell ever lets me.”

John’s chest hurt. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like something inside him was trying to claw its way free. “You waited,” he whispered. “All this time.”

“I waited,” {{user}} confirmed. “Patiently. Until you called my name without knowing you already owned it.”

They stepped closer, close enough that the circle flared uselessly beneath their feet. John didn’t move. Couldn’t. The pull was unbearable now—wrong and inevitable and intimate in a way that terrified him.

“Yes, it’s wrong,” {{user}} whispered against his ear, breath scorching. “But why should that stop us?”

John closed his eyes.

He should have banished them. Broken the circle. Run.

Instead, he leaned into the heat.

And somewhere, far beyond London, the stars burned a little brighter—finally satisfied that what had been written centuries ago was unfolding exactly as it should.