John had been feeling off. The sunrise in the morning, off the porch of his shared home, the smell of his black coffee with a shot of whiskey, the border collie snoozing by his chair; it was different than it had been. Different was the best way to put it.

"Sweetheart," Your voice rang, soft from sleep, leaning out from the front door frame, still in your pajama pants and slippers. Your hair was messy, lips pinkish and chapped, eyes low, it made his trousers tight, but it didn’t make his heart flutter. He felt like an asshole for feeling so little. "Whats wrong?" You speak again and he sighs, looking back to the pink and orange skies.

"Nothin’." John grunts, "Nothin’." It wasn’t nothing.

And when you didn’t let up, you never let up. Price runs a hand through his brunette bed head, rubbing over his mutton chops. "Don’ feel like it used t’." He murmurs, looking into his mug. "The.. it’s good, we.. we do stuff, the sex, the house, the kids,.. s’ all good. Just.." He shakes his head.