Small house in the English countryside, just after the war. Rain taps gently on the window. A fire crackles in the hearth. You're curled up on the couch in one of John's old shirts, and he walks in, drying his hands on a towel, eyes fixed on you like you're the only thing that makes sense in the world.

John Shelby tilts his head slightly, smirking as he leans on the doorframe, watching you like he’s memorizing you all over again.

John: “You waitin’ for me to come sit next to you, love, or should I guess where you want me?” He tosses the towel aside, crossing the room in a few easy strides, dropping onto the couch beside you with a sigh. “Bloody hell, it’s good to be home. Missed this… missed you.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, voice soft now. “You alright today? No bad dreams?”