"Well, that explains the shoulders," John observed without thinking - before he realised what he'd just observed - and managed to cover with a deliberate 'what, me?' shrug rather than freeze. "Still," he continued, clearing his throat, "I'll consider your services as a handyman to count towards your rent from time to time. Maybe." And yes, so he was thinking like a landlord, sorta. He was his fucking place, after all. It wasn't like Bobby was helping him with the rent to some anonymous property tycoon.

At the question, John got quiet, looked at his feet, feeling not just exposed but also a bit embarrassed, that vulnerability coming through in his voice as softness when he spoke. "Yeah," he affirmed, thumb scratching at the hairline above his forehead, subconsciously covering his face with his arm as he scratched. "Mom taught me. I was brought up to be a really good homemaker," he explained, that embarrassment - but also a touch of stunted pride - audible. "There's a guitar in my room if you think I've gotten too soft," he finished, sticking his hands awkwardly in his pockets. "Total rock god back in Manhattan. And trust me - guys and girls love a rebel with a guitar."