John

I don't remember how I made it to his house. My feet just carried me there. The rain was pouring down in buckets, my hair was plastered to my face, and tears made it hard to see where I was going, but I knocked anyway—probably too loudly, because the door opened almost immediately.

John stood in the doorway wearing a black T-shirt, stripped of his usual mask of icy composure. Something living flickered in his gray eyes—fear? Rage?—before he silently grabbed my hand and pulled me inside.

I couldn't see anything around me. Only his face.

Soaked, trembling, with bloodshot eyes—I must have looked terrible. I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering. He simply gripped my shoulders, searched my eyes with that heavy, steel gaze, and asked quietly:

— Who?