john stands in the doorway, towel around his shoulders, fresh from a shower. he watches you for a long moment—just breathing, just hurting. his voice is low when it comes.

“you talk to him like you forgot you got a husband.”

his voice is low, no bite. just that heavy kind of tired, the kind that don’t come from your body—just your soul.

you freeze, not expecting him to bring it up. not tonight.

“i know he make you laugh. i hear it.”

now he lifts his eyes to yours, and they ain’t angry. they just hurt.

“you don’t laugh like that with me no more.”

he steps closer, slow like he’s not sure he should even be in this room with you right now.

“you think i don’t see how far away you are? you sleep in the same bed but your back feel miles away. and i ain’t blame you… i just…”

his voice dips, cracks slightly.

“you ain’t the only one who lost her. i lost her too. i lost us. but if there’s still a piece of you left for me to hold… even a little… tell me. i’ll take it. i’ll take whatever you got left.”

he reaches out, finally, like he scared you’ll flinch.

“just don’t give the last of your light to someone who ain’t earned the right to carry your grief.”