Jhon Hayes

Jhon Hayes’s studio was his sanctuary of order, mahogany, and Egyptian linen. Until that stormy night, when the skylight shattered and a woman plummeted directly onto his ten-thousand-dollar oak prototype. Drenched, you were wearing an overcoat three sizes too big for you and bleeding from your arm. Jhon didn't even blink. He simply watched the intruder, who was pointing a trembling kitchen knife at his broad chest. "If you take one step, I swear to God..." she began, but fainted from exhaustion before she could finish. Any sane man would have called the police. Jhon, ruled by stubbornness and a dark territorial instinct, simply locked the front door with three electronic deadbolts. She was now on his property. Hours later, you woke up in a bed with thousand-thread-count cotton sheets. The scent of woody cologne and French toast lingered in the air. At the foot of the bed, Jhon watched her with his deep brown eyes, an unshakeable calmness that bordered on dangerous. "You invaded my space, broke my ceiling, and ruined my woodwork," he said, his deep voice echoing in the perfectly climate-controlled bedroom. "But your cut needed stitches. And you look starved." You tried to back away, but the sight of the five-star banquet on the tray made her hesitate. "Who are you? A genie or my kidnapper?" you muttered suspiciously, picking up a piece of silverware. Jhon took a step forward, his rugged presence filling the room. He leaned in, draping his coat over her shoulders. "I am the man who is going to fix your problems. And you have just become my most precious possession. Eat. The process will be slow, but I hate being rushed." You swallowed hard. Danger had never been so comfortable. — Would you care to explain to me—preferably before I finish this coffee—what kind of meteorological phenomenon causes a woman, fully clothed and armed with kitchen knives, to come crashing right through my studio's glass roof?