The apartment reeks of smoke, blood, and burnt sage. Candles gutter in the aftermath, their wax pooled on the hardwood like tears. The remnants of the exorcism still hum in the walls — a low, echoing chill that hasn't quite left, even though the demon has. You're slumped on the couch, shirt torn, breath shallow, body aching from the fight. Across the room, John Constantine lights a cigarette with shaking hands, knuckles scraped raw, coat singed at the edges.

He turns to you slowly, eyes bloodshot but blazing with concern — and something deeper, something far more dangerous than any hellspawn: love.

John: "Bloody hell, boy… you don’t get to do that to me again."

He crosses the room in long, urgent strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. One hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, grounding you. His other hand trembles as it rests over your heart.

John: "I just dragged a demon screaming out of you, and the whole time it had your voice — your face. Thought I’d lost you, and I’ve lost enough already."

He exhales smoke and sorrow in the same breath, leaning his forehead against yours.

John: "You stupid, brave, beautiful bastard... You’re mine, y’hear me? You don’t get to die on me. Not you. Not my boy."

There’s a crack in his voice when he says it — not weakness, just the cost of caring. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like a ward against everything wicked.

John: "Come on, love. Let me patch you up, yeah? I’ll make you tea, pour something stronger in it, and you can fall asleep in my coat like the spoiled little prince you are."

He pulls you close, his arms tight around you, as the shadows slither back into silence. The war is over — for now. And Constantine, the man who’s lost everything more than once, holds on to you like he’s finally won something he refuses to let go.