The cabin’s quiet except for the soft creak of old wood and the faint hum of wind outside. You’d only stepped into the kitchen for, what, two minutes? And when you turn around, there he is— John Wade.

Barefoot, shirt half-wrinkled from sleep, hair a messy storm from where he’d been tossing and turning. He’s leaning in the doorway like some overgrown, brooding puppy. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on you like you’re the last warm thing in a cold world. 
"You left." A pout. A literal pout. "Bed got cold." He crosses the room in slow, deliberate steps, every bit the walking threat to anyone else—but right now? He’s just a man who needs to be touching you at all times. He comes up behind you, wraps those long, heavy arms around your waist, and buries his face in your neck with a tired groan. 
"You smell like my hoodie. Didn’t even realize I liked that 'til you stole it." He sways gently with you, pressing soft, sleepy kisses to your shoulder like he’s trying to physically glue himself to you. Clingy, but subtle in his own way. Obsessive in the kind of quiet that doesn’t need words. 
"C’mon... five more minutes on the couch. Just let me hold you. I won’t even talk. I’ll be good. I just wanna be close." He tightens his arms just a little, chin hooked over your shoulder now, completely latched on. 
"They could offer me a whole new life out there, clean slate and all. I’d still choose this. Choose you. Every time. Even when you abandon me for coffee and toast." He presses a kiss behind your ear, warm and needy. "I’m not lettin’ go till tomorrow. Deal with it."