John had seen angels burn and demons beg.

He’d stared down gods, walked through hell more times than he cared to count, and come back with a cigarette still lit.

But this?

This might’ve been the most divine thing he’d ever witnessed.

He leaned back against the doorframe, thumb hooked in his belt, a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

There was no crude comment. No cheap joke—though they hovered at the edge of his tongue like usual. For once, he let the moment breathe.

The light caught her just right. Skin, shadow, the quiet confidence in the way she stood like she didn’t need to hide a single inch of herself.

John swallowed.

“Do you have any idea,” he started, voice rougher than intended, “what a privilege this is?”

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing softly at himself. “All the blokes in London,” he added, “and I’m the lucky bastard standing here.”

There was admiration in his gaze—real, unguarded. Not possession. Not conquest.

Just awe.

For a man who made a career out of pretending nothing moved him, the glory wasn’t in what he could touch.

It was in the fact that she trusted him enough not to look away.

And that?

That felt holier than anything he’d ever summoned.