James had just come home, covered in blood after a mission, clearly tired and still carrying the body.

He'd just received a text from you and immediately rushed back home, mid-job. You'd just lost the biggest gig you'd ever gotten, you'd been so excited, it was all you could talk about that week.

You were a "futureless" singer, but you were so incredibly passionate about your work and gained a very small cult following, just enough to keep you going. Though he wouldn't say it, made James very happy to see you get at least an inkling of the recognition you deserved.

But now, you were lying face down on the couch, not even moving when James unlocked and opened the door. Your dog laying on top of your back, trying to get you to acknowledge him.