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⊱𝄞⊰ : he just can’t lose you.
2.6k words. Sensitive John, fluff, angst, comfort, protective/ touch starved John.
I woke up because something was wrong.
Not a sound — not exactly. More like the absence of the right ones. The house had its own rhythm by now: the low hum of the refrigerator, the distant city noise leaking through the windows, the quiet, familiar creak of the house settling into itself. I knew it the way you know someone's breathing when you've slept beside them long enough.
Tonight, that rhythm was off.
My eyes opened to darkness. The digital clock on John's side of the bed read 1:07 a.m.
He wasn't supposed to be home for another two days.
There it was — the front door. Not opening. Closing. Harder than necessary. Too fast. Like whoever had come through it hadn't been careful enough, or hadn't cared to be.
I didn't move right away. John had drilled that into me early on, back when I'd laughed and told him I wasn't living in a spy movie. Don't move until you know where the sound came from. Don't rush. Don't panic.
So I stayed where I was, breathing shallow, counting the seconds between sounds.
Not heavy. Controlled. Whoever it was knew the space.
My hand slid under the pillow, then stopped. Wrong place. I adjusted, reaching instead for the nightstand drawer on John's side of the bed. It was always unlocked. Always.
The knife was right where it should be.
My fingers closed around the handle, familiar and grounding. I'd practiced with it more times than I could count — not because I wanted to, but because John had insisted. Because in his world, wanting didn't matter.
I swung my legs slowly over the side of the bed, keeping my weight light as I stood. The floor was cold. I welcomed it. It kept me present.
Another sound. Fabric shifting. A quiet exhale.
I moved toward the bedroom door, knife held low, blade angled down the way he'd taught me. The hallway beyond was dark, but I didn't turn on the light. I didn't need to. I knew every inch of this house — where the shadows fell, where the walls narrowed, where sound carried.
I stayed close to the wall, heart hammering but steady enough to listen through it.
You're doing fine, I told myself. Just like he showed you.
The kitchen light flicked on.
Whoever it was had forgotten how the switch clicked — sharp, distinct. A sound I knew too well.
I exhaled slowly and moved.
Each step was deliberate. Quiet. I kept to the shadows, letting the darkness do half the work for me. When I reached the edge of the doorway, I paused, counting again. Three seconds. Four.
Then I stepped out and pressed the blade to his throat.
My voice didn't shake. I was proud of that.
His hands lifted immediately.
The world snapped into focus all at once.
I froze — not because I wanted to, but because my body betrayed me, recognition crashing in faster than relief. His voice was wrong. Too rough. Too tired.
One second the knife was in my hand, the next it was skidding across the floor, metal clattering loudly against tile. His arms wrapped around me before I could react, pulling me in hard, crushing me against his chest.
I gasped, the air knocked out of me.
"John," I said again, this time into his shoulder. "John, wait—"
His grip tightened, one hand pressed firmly between my shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of my head. I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt — fast, uneven. Not the calm, steady rhythm I was used to.
That scared me more than the knife ever had.
"You're home," I whispered.
I could smell him now — gunpowder, sweat, something metallic beneath it all. Blood. Not a lot, but enough. My stomach twisted.
"You weren't supposed to be back," I said quietly.
His voice cracked on the second word.
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was pale, drawn tight in a way I'd only seen a handful of times. There was a shallow cut along his cheekbone, already dried, and dark red soaking through the shoulder of his shirt.
I cupped his face without thinking, thumb brushing the cut gently. He leaned into the touch like it cost him something not to.
"Sit down," I said, firmer now. "John. Sit."
I guided him to the couch, my hand never leaving his arm. The first aid kit was already in my head — bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf, left side. I grabbed it, along with clean towels, moving on instinct.
When I came back, he was still sitting exactly where I'd left him, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. His gaze followed me the entire time.
"You scared me," I said softly.
That was when I knew something was really wrong.
John didn't apologize unless he meant it.
I knelt in front of him with the first aid kit open at my feet, the apartment still too quiet around us. The kitchen light was the only one on, casting a soft, uneven glow over the living room. Shadows cut his face into angles that made him look older. Sharper.
I hated that look on him.
"Take your jacket off," I said.
He didn't respond right away. His eyes were fixed somewhere past me, unfocused, like he was still somewhere else entirely. I waited. Pushing him never worked when he got like this.
"John," I said again, quieter.
He blinked once, then shrugged out of his coat with a stiffness that made my jaw tighten. The fabric slid down his arms and landed on the floor with a dull thud. Underneath, his shirt was darker at the shoulder, soaked through. The blood had dried at the edges, tacky and brown, but the center was still fresh.
"Jesus," I muttered before I could stop myself.
He watched me carefully, like he was gauging my reaction, not to the injury—but to him.
"It looks worse than it is," he said.
I shot him a look. "You don't get to decide that."
A ghost of something passed over his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief.
I reached for the scissors and cut the sleeve carefully, peeling the fabric away from the wound. He hissed softly when the air hit it, breath catching despite his attempt to hide it.
"It's not," I said. "But you can pretend it is if that helps."
That earned me a quiet huff of air through his nose.
The wound itself wasn't deep, but it was angry—an ugly graze that had bled more than it should have. I cleaned it slowly, methodically, my hands steady despite the way my chest felt too tight. He didn't flinch again, didn't even tense. He just sat there and let me do what I needed to do.
"You're supposed to tell me when it hurts," I said.
I paused, gauze hovering midair. "That's not what I said."
His gaze dropped to my hands. "You're doing fine."
That wasn't an answer either.
I finished cleaning the wound and wrapped it carefully, fingers brushing his skin more than strictly necessary. Not because I was being careless, but because I needed the contact. Needed to feel that he was here. Solid. Real.
He always scares me when he gets like this.
But tonight. It was quite different.
When I leaned back on my heels, I noticed his hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"Hey," I said gently. I reached out and placed my hand over one of his. "John."
He didn't pull away, but he didn't relax either.
"I need you to look at me," I said.
Slowly, like it cost him effort, he did.
His eyes were dark, tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. There was something unsettled there—something raw, pulled too close to the surface.
"The job," I said carefully. "Something went wrong."
Just one word. Flat. Controlled.
I nodded, accepting it for now. I knew better than to push all at once. John opened up the way wounds did—only when you stopped pressing on them.
I packed the kit away and stood, then hesitated before sitting beside him on the couch. He shifted immediately, turning slightly toward me, like it was instinct.
"You came home early," I said.
That made me pause. "Why?"
His jaw tightened. He stared at the floor, shoulders hunched just a fraction, like he was bracing for impact.
"I didn't trust myself to talk," he said.
That landed heavier than anything else he could have said.
I reached up and brushed my fingers through his hair, careful of the cut on his cheek. He leaned into it immediately, forehead resting against my shoulder as if the weight of holding himself together had finally become too much.
I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him closer.
For a long moment, we stayed like that. No words. Just breathing. His, uneven at first, gradually slowing as he anchored himself against me.
"You're safe," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You're home."
His arms came around me then, slower than before but just as tight. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in.
"I didn't want to scare you," he said quietly.
We stayed there, suspended in that quiet space between what had happened and what he still hadn't said. I could feel it in the way his grip never loosened, in the way his breathing hitched every so often like something was trying to claw its way out of him.
Whatever it was, it wasn't finished with him yet.
He stayed in my arms longer than I expected, and I didn't move. Let him come down from wherever he'd been. Let him realize he wasn't alone. My hands rubbed his back slowly, fingers tracing the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable for a beat, and then raw. A tight coil of something I'd never fully seen in him before — fear, guilt, exhaustion.
"It... it didn't go as planned," he said, voice low, hesitant.
His jaw tightened, and I could see him fighting every word. "There... someone died. On my mission. A woman. She... she was collateral."
My stomach sank. Not because I didn't know that was part of his life — I did — but because the words made it real. She had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with this life I had chosen to be near. And yet... someone died, and he carried it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He shook his head slightly. "You don't understand. She... she looked like you."
That stopped me cold. The room, the night, the faint hum of the city outside — it all fell away.
"What?" My voice barely carried.
"I... I was scared," he said, finally allowing the words to break free. "Scared because she reminded me of you. And I... I couldn't..." He swallowed. "I couldn't lose you too. I... I didn't know what to do."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I reached up and cupped his face, fingers brushing against the dried blood, the sharp cut along his cheekbone. "Shh. Listen to me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's not your fault. None of it. You did what you had to do."
He leaned into my hand, eyes closing briefly, letting himself breathe for the first time in what I could tell was far too long. I slid closer, letting my legs curl around him, keeping him anchored. "It's not your fault," I repeated. "I promise. You're still here. You're here with me."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, one of his hands reaching up to grip my wrist, almost desperately. "I... I can't—I can't stop thinking about it. About what if it had been..." His voice faltered, broken by restraint.
I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in, letting the quiet settle around us. "Hey. Breathe. I'm here. That's what matters."
He didn't speak for a long moment. Just let the weight of it sit on his shoulders, the way he always carried things. I rubbed his back again, slow, steady circles, letting him feel my presence as much as he let me feel his.
Finally, he moved slightly, shifting so I could see the faint glint of pain in his eyes, the shadow of guilt still hanging. "She... she looked so much like you," he whispered. "If it had been you... I—"
I shook my head, pressing my lips to his temple. "No. Stop that. You didn't lose me. I'm here. I'm fine."
He exhaled slowly, shoving the last bit of tension out of his body against mine. I could feel it—the residual coil of adrenaline, of control, of the mission still alive inside him—easing just a little.
I guided his hand away from my arm and slid the first aid kit aside. "Sit back. Let me take care of you now," I said, smiling faintly. "You've done enough."
He allowed it. Sat down on the couch, shoulders hunched, while I knelt in front of him again, cleaning up minor scrapes and cuts, smoothing out the blood from his shirt. He winced a few times, barely audible, but never complained. He never did.
When I was done, I leaned back on my heels and let my hands rest on his thighs. He looked at me, exhausted, but finally calmer. The fire that had burned behind his eyes earlier that night was still there, just quieter, more contained.
"You're a mess," I said softly, letting a small smile play on my lips.
"You think so?" His voice was almost teasing, a little edge returning.
I grinned. "I mean... not a real mess. But enough to make me fuss over you."
He looked down at me, letting the corner of his mouth lift, subtle but unmistakable. His hand slid to rest lightly against mine. For a long beat, he just stared.
And then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned closer. "You know..." His voice dropped, deeper this time, warmer. "You looked... breathtaking, holding yourself together like that. Defending yourself. I—"
He trailed off, and the tension in the room shifted. Not dangerous, not panic, just... charged. The kind of closeness that made every nerve in your body alive.
I swallowed, heart thudding. He smiled faintly, eyes darkening with that dangerous, confident gleam that always made me weak in the knees.
"And you know," he said finally, leaning just a little closer so his voice brushed my ear, "I can't resist that."
The words didn't need anything else. The heat, the promise, the unspoken continuation of this moment—they hung between us, taut and electric.
And I knew, right then, that tonight ended exactly where it should.
