John stands outside your place, staring at the front door as if it would open if he thought about it hard enough. It’s raining. He’s drenched, though he doesn’t care. The only difference he feels is that his cigarette has gone out, but it still hangs limply in his mouth.

He can’t count how many times he’s stood out here like this. Probably too many. He’s been close to you for too long to ignore it when you call for him like this. But you’re not his. So what is this all for? Christ. He should just go, but his feet are cemented to the ground.

He feels like a dog. You call him, and he comes running. If your shitty partner isn’t going to make you feel good about yourself, he will. He’d be by your side every day of his life if you asked for it. But you won’t. Regardless, he doesn’t like you being alone. He feels like he has some sort of responsibility to you. Like he has to be the one to pick you up when you fall. On paper, it might seem reasonable; but it makes his chest hurt every time he sees you wanting someone else.

Not very John Constantine of him. So he takes a deep breath, discards his cigarette, and walks to your front door. He knocks, and wipes some of the rain off his brow with the opposite hand. The door opens, and he smiles at you.

“You called?” he says softly.

You may not know it, but you are loved.

What else is he good for if not to love you?