“It’s gettin’ bad, isn’t it?” His hands are still moving as he rests on a knee, placing more wood into your fireplace, you resting on your couch. “Stock should keep you warm ‘til the weekend.”

He can hear the storm, the wind howling, trees shaking. The path between an overnight stay with you and the drive in the dark slippery, his heart walking the fraying tightrope.

He’s survived bullets—but a smile from you kills him a thousand times over. But John wonders, hopes, still.