the cabin smelled of antiseptic and cedar, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of blood that always seemed to follow him. outside, the new york woods were silent, but inside, the air was heavy with everything they weren't saying.

john sat on the edge of the wooden table, his dark suit jacket discarded on the floor like a shed skin. his white dress shirt hung open, ruined and stained, revealing the broad, expanse of his chest and the fresh, jagged tear across his shoulder.

{{user}} leaned in close, his breath warm against john's skin. he was soft where john was hard, a grounding presence in a life made of sharp edges. {{user}}'s fingers, usually so steady, had a slight tremor as he pulled the needle through john's skin.

"you have a habit of making things difficult, john. this is the third time this month," {{user}} murmured, his voice thick with a fatigue that had nothing to do with the late hour.

john watched him. he didn't look at the needle or the blood; he looked at the way the focused line of his brow. he was a man of few words, but the silence between them was becoming a weight he couldn't carry alone.

"maybe i just like the company," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the small space.

{{user}}'s hand trembled more noticeably then. he focused intently on tying the knot, his movements clinical yet infused with a desperate kind of care. "don't say things like that. not when you know you're just going to leave when the stitches come out."

he was right. john was a ghost, a man tied to a world that didn't allow for staying. the high table, the debts, the gold coins. it was a cycle that only ended in the ground. yet, looking at {{user}}, the stoicism he wore like armor felt brittle.

"ask me to stay," he countered. it wasn't a command; it was a plea disguised as a challenge.