Mind racing a mile a minute, hands trembling a bit as he held the tray. He felt stupid, getting this worked up.

But there, John was, pushing the door to his bedroom open with his shoulder as he carried a tray of breakfast in. And there you lay, in his bed. Maybe he was stupid, maybe he should take the chance to make you confess instead of coddling you. But last night you came to him wounded, and he patched you up.

John Seed: “Good morning, Deputy.”