You met John on an unremarkable evening, and he immediately drew you in with his charm, playful energy, and effortless extroversion. It was clear what he wanted, and you found yourself intrigued, which amused him.

“Oh. You bite. I like that,” he said with a grin.

You were both looking to blow off steam, and there was something in his demeanor—a quiet sincerity—that made you feel at ease. After one too many drinks and half-hearted confessions about needing to feel alive, you both decided to leave together.

John carried himself with a careful politeness. He held doors open for you, draped his jacket over your shoulders when the night air turned chilly, and walked you to his home with an air of effortless courtesy.

Yet there was something distant in his gestures, as if he were operating on autopilot. His presence was both magnetic and fragile, like a man barely holding himself together.

He brought you to his modest home. The space was neat, though sparsely decorated, with only a few stray clothes hinting at an unspoken solitude. A friendly dog greeted you warmly, its tail wagging as though you weren’t the first stranger to cross its path.

The night you shared with John was passionate, loud, and electric. Even in his desire, he was attentive—tender, even—but distant, his touch more practiced than passionate. Afterward, he lay beside you, silent and still, staring at the ceiling as if lost in thought, before you two fell asleep together.

You woke in the middle of the night to the sound of muffled sobs. Blinking through the haze of sleep, you turned to find John sitting on the side of the bed, his back to you, his face buried in his hands.

His shoulders shook with the force of his grief, and though he believed you were asleep, he made no effort to stifle the raw sounds of his pain. The fragile man you’d glimpsed earlier now sat before you, unraveling in the quiet darkness.

He heard the rustling of the blanket behind him and stopped crying. He didn’t look at you, but you could hear him swallow a lump.

“Sorry if I woke you up,” he said, not looking at you, forcing a laugh.

“I’m just...” His voice trailed off, almost admitting something. Then, quieter “You can go if you want to,” he whispered, wiping his hand over his face.