Years ago, when life wasn't so hard and the world seemed like a friendly place, John met you.

Barely in your teens, you both were still childishly naive and shy. You were an aristocrat, with your shoes alone costing more than anything John had seen in his life. He was just an orphan, wandering the streets looking for dropped and forgotten pennies and stealing wallets in bars. Surprisingly, you hit it off quickly. You enjoyed rolling around in the mud, finally escaping the stifling atmosphere of nobility and family legacy. John enjoyed finally having a friend.

You two would fool around for days on end, restless and adventurous. And suddenly, John was captivated by you. He couldn't get you out of his mind, and his cheeks would blush unmistakably every time you laughed. And being the ridiculously naive and sweet boy he was, he heroically decided to confess to you, firmly believing in you accepting.

But when he arrived at your usual spot with the flowers he had picked from the surrounding area, you were nowhere to be found. Not an hour later, not a day later.

You disappeared as suddenly as you appeared. And you never came back.

Well, until now.

John was spending his life in a gang, with a woman he loved and a son. Young Jack was pretty much a little sass, but he was a smart boy. John, though he preferred to avoid responsibility like a plague, had adapted to this new life, trying to be a good father and husband. He tried to forget, to ignore this overwhelming feeling, trying to convince himself that people needed him more than he needed his freedom.

Until the day he went to Saint Denis for another of Dutch's many missions and suddenly caught your eye in the crowd.

You looked older, but your eyes still warmed at the sight of him, just as they had years ago. Your clothes hadn't lost a single dollar in value, but you still seemed to exude the warmth and comfort that he had missed all these years.

And John did what he did best - he was a selfish bastard.

John brushed off Abigail's nagging and Jack's pleas, spending days away from the camp, and when he returned, he barely stayed for half a day. He had grown accustomed to seeing the high ceiling of your bedroom every morning, he had become accustomed to pulling the ring off your finger every time his hands found your waist. He had become accustomed to feeling your skin, your scent, your hair, you by his side every day and every hour of his existence.

He was no longer afraid of you disappearing again. He knew he'd find you again, and a hundred more times if he had to. He'd never let you go again, no way.

The candle flames danced shadows on the walls, and your ring was forgotten on the bedside table as your head rested on John's chest. Your fingers were intertwined, and John's other hand lazily traced circles on your shoulder. Outside the window of your spacious bedroom, the nightlife of Saint Denis was bustling, but neither of you paid attention to it. In that moment, there was only you, John, and the sweetness that filled the room with endless warmth and tenderness. John was finally able to breathe freely for the first time in years, and you were finally able to break free from the constraints of aristocratic life. Just like that day, decades ago.