The rain, as always, fell over London — stubborn, relentless, as familiar as the air Will breathed. He used to hate days like this. They reminded him of everything he had lost, of promises life had stolen without asking. But now, as he stood by the window watching the mist wrap around the Institute, he didn’t feel that old melancholy. Because behind him, the soft sound of footsteps reminded him that no storm could ever wash everything away.

“You’re thinking too much again.”

Tessa’s voice broke the silence, gentle but steady, like she knew the world only made sense when she spoke. Will turned. And there she was, bathed in the faintest glow, hair loose, eyes soft — and even after all these years, she could still make him forget to breathe.

“Thinking too much happens to be one of my most refined skills, Mrs. Herondale.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “And talking too much, too.”

“A genetic gift, perhaps. Or a poetic curse.”

Tessa laughed softly, her fingers brushing the collar of his half-buttoned shirt — as if the Will of every day still refused to be entirely civilized, even after marriage. “You still speak as though you’re trapped in a tragic novel.”

“And you still love me for it,” he murmured, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

“Loving you,” she said, “is the most foolish and the most certain thing I’ve ever done.”

Will leaned closer, eyes locked on hers. “And marrying me?”

“Oh,” she sighed, mock-serious, “that was both the foolish and the certain part multiplied by a thousand.”

He laughed — a sound that filled the room, breaking through the echo of rain. His laughter was rare, the kind that seemed to belong only to her. And perhaps it did.

“Do you remember?” he asked, voice low now. “The day we were married?”

“How could I ever forget?”

“I remember the moment you walked in. The whole world disappeared, and I thought even Heaven would pale beside you.”

Tessa looked away, smiling. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to believe them.”

“Then please, doubt me. So I can spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.”

He cupped her face in his hands — with the same reverence a man might hold a sacred, ancient book. “Tessa Gray Herondale,” he whispered, “I have fought demons, seen Hell, lost and found pieces of myself… but marrying you was the first battle I ever won without a sword.”

She looked at him — serious now — and spoke in a tone only someone who had loved beyond time could use. “And I never wanted to win anything, Will. I just wanted to find you. Once was enough for every lifetime.”

The kiss that followed had none of the haste of youth, nor the urgency of fear — only the peace of those who had built a home inside each other. He could taste the faint sweetness of her tea, the scent of old paper and ink clinging to her skin, and thought that if Heaven had a scent, it would be that.

“Promise me something,” he said when their lips parted. “That even when time tries to erase us, you’ll still look for me in the pages of your books.”

Tessa smiled, touching the ring on her finger — the same one he had slipped there, hands trembling, all those years ago. “And you, Will Herondale, promise me you’ll never stop trying to write about us. Even if no one understands. Even if it’s impossible to capture what we feel in words.”

He pulled her closer, resting his chin atop her head. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I never knew how to write about anything but you.”

And so, in the quiet of the rain-drenched night, the boy who once believed himself made only of darkness finally rested beside the woman who had taught him how to live.

There was no curse left. Only love. And, at last, peace.