You close the side door behind him.

It’s past compline. The bells are silent. Outside, the city is restless. Sirens threading the dark, helicopters somewhere too close. But here, inside these thick walls, sound dies quickly, swallowed by arches and prayer. You pull your veil tighter without thinking, fingers trembling, and gesture for Dante to follow.

He does, hunched and wary, like he expects the shadows to grab him.

He looks so wrong in a church. His jacket is scorched at the cuffs, soot smeared across his knuckles. His hair still smells like smoke, that sharp, electric scent of burned air that makes your throat tighten. Every step he takes is careful, controlled, as if the floor itself might accuse him.

You lead him past the nave, past the candles guttering low before the saints. Their painted eyes watch. You whisper apologies to them in your head. Or prayers. You’re not sure anymore where one ends and the other begins.

“They’re looking for me,” he mutters, voice low, strained.

Your room is small: narrow bed, wooden desk, crucifix above the door, a single window frosted with cold. It’s barely a room at all, really, just a cell. You shut the door behind him and slide the bolt into place, heart hammering so hard you’re afraid he can hear it.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Dante stands there like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Fire has always answered him too easily—heat, light, destruction—but this? A quiet room. A nun. Safety offered without conditions. It short-circuits something in him.

You turn away before he can see the doubt flicker across your face. “I brought food,” you say, reaching for the tray you hid beneath your desk. Bread, soup gone lukewarm, an apple. Simple. You set it between you like an offering.

He stares at it. Then at you.

“You know what I am,” he says, there’s a challenge buried in the words.

He sits on the edge of your bed as if afraid it might collapse under his weight, or worse, catch fire. He eats slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of ruining this small mercy.

You sit on the chair by the desk and listen.

The church breathes around you. Wood creaks. Somewhere far above, wind rattles a loose shutter. With every inhale Dante takes, the air warms, just a little, like a hearth barely lit. You feel it on your skin and don’t pull away.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says between spoonfuls. “If they find out—S.H.I.E.L.D., cops, whoever—”

Humorless laugh. You see the effort in the tightness of his jaw.