The rain had stopped just long enough for the stars to peek through the London smog, which John took as a sign—not a good one, necessarily, but a sign all the same.

They stood in the ruins of an old chapel, long forgotten by the living and only occasionally remembered by the dead. Candles flickered in the corners, glowing not from flame, but from enchantment—soft, golden, and humming low with protective wards he’d carved in Latin and sarcasm.

He adjusted his coat, took a shaky breath, and looked at her.

“You know, I’ve seen a lot of things. Angels, demons, old gods with worse tempers than mine. Been to hell more times than I’ve been to therapy. But none of it—not a single bloody spell, sigil, or sacred relic—hits me the way you do.”

He stepped forward, pulling a small, rune-etched box from his coat. “I figured, if I was going to screw this up, I might as well do it magically.”

The box opened on its own, a ring rising slowly from its center in a soft glow, surrounded by tiny symbols floating like fireflies—wards of truth, protection, commitment. And love. Real, dangerous, raw love.

“No tricks, no binding spells. Just me, asking you to choose this madhouse of a life. Choose me. Every haunted, cursed, bloody second of it.”

He paused, eyes locked on hers, voice suddenly quieter.

“I can’t promise safety. But I can promise I’ll fight for you until the end. And knowing me… probably past it, too.”

The ring floated gently between them, waiting.

So did he.