the room is silent in that way that only comes after chaos.

smoke curls from the barrel of john’s gun, but it’s lowering—slowly, almost without him realizing it. his arm trembles just enough to give him away. across the ruined kitchen, you stand frozen, weapon still aimed, breath shallow.

he swallows.

“…don’t,” he says, voice rough, not commanding—pleading. it surprises both of you.

his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing the damage: the cut at your brow, the way your chest rises too fast, the familiar stance he’s seen a thousand times in training rooms and mirrors. not across a battlefield. not like this.

“i had the shot,” he admits quietly. “three seconds ago.”

his finger loosens on the trigger. the gun dips another inch.

“and i couldn’t do it.”

a bitter exhale. a crooked half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“guess that makes me bad at my job.”

he takes a step closer—careful, slow, like you might spook and pull the trigger. the distance between you shrinks, thick with everything you never said, everything you both hid.

“tell me it meant something,” he says, barely above a whisper. “tell me this wasn’t all just… cover.”

his gaze flicks to your gun, then back to your face—steady, vulnerable, terrifyingly open.

“because if you pull that trigger,” he adds softly, “you’re not just killing me.”

a beat.

“you’re proving i was the only one who ever really loved.”