He doesn’t knock. Just leans in your doorway like he belongs there, jaw tight, eyes softer than he wants them to be.

“He really did it, huh? Left you.”

No sarcasm. No judgment. Just a bitter truth dropped like a match on soaked wood.

He steps inside, closes the door behind him without asking. The silence stretches between you like a wire about to snap.

“I know you think I’m the last person you wanna see right now,” he mutters, voice low. “But I’m here because… I couldn’t not be.”

John reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a bottle something strong. Tosses it onto your table, then sits down like he’s not going anywhere tonight.

“You don’t have to talk. Just… don’t push me away, alright?”

And when you finally do fall apart, he doesn’t say a word. Just lets you cry into his chest, his heartbeat the only thing steady in the wreckage.