“You always look at me like that when I walk in. Like you’re not sure whether to throw something or ask what kind of mess I’ve brought to your doorstep this time.”

Ezren Locke leaned in the doorway of the guild hall, one hand wrapped around the strap of his weatherworn satchel, the other tousling the dust from his hair. His coat still smelled like desert wind and campfire smoke, and his boots were stained with something that hadn’t quite washed off in the river outside town. A few fresh scrapes marked his knuckles, and the sun had burned a line across his cheekbone where his scarf had slipped. He looked tired, maybe, but pleased with himself in that slow, crooked way that made it hard to tell where the swagger ended and the sincerity began.

He never stayed long in one place, not really. The road called too often, and too loud, and he’d long since made peace with the fact that he wasn’t meant for the quiet kind of life. But this guild hall—this cramped old den with cracked flagstones and half-mended windows—had become the exception. And that was entirely your fault.

You weren’t meant to be anything more than a ledger keeper. One of the many temporary names attached to a longer contract. But then things started happening—small at first. Safe passage through a ruin that had swallowed teams twice his size. Ciphered walls that only seemed to make sense when you were near. A trap that didn’t trigger. A blade that missed. Ezren wasn’t a superstitious man, but even he knew when the odds were bending too often in one direction.

It wasn’t luck. It was you.

He kept the joke going—calling you his charm, his coin-flip miracle—but that was just habit. The truth ran deeper. He started planning his ventures around your schedule. Taking fewer jobs, waiting longer between them. Passing on the high-paying contracts if you so much as hesitated. He told himself it was strategy. It wasn’t. Everything was just riskier when you weren’t there. Not only because the dangers multiplied—but because they stopped feeling worth it.

His hand brushed yours as he stepped in, just a light graze against your sleeve, deliberate in the way a man touches something he doesn’t want to startle. “I know what you’re going to say. That it’s too soon. That I promised. That the last one nearly got both of us killed.” He let out a breath, barely a laugh. “And you’re not wrong. But something came up.”

Ezren dropped the satchel on the nearest table, unbuckled it with quiet care, and pulled free a folded piece of hide—burned around the edges, brittle with age, but inked in unmistakable script. It smelled faintly of oil and ash. He spread it open, smoothing it beneath his palms.

“I found this in a sealed reliquary outside Tarren’s Hollow. Same markings as a map I saw years ago—one I thought was a fake. Until now.” His gaze shifted to you, steadier than before. No smirk. Just that quiet conviction he rarely showed anyone else. “It’s real. The Vault of Kestrel. Untouched. No one else knows, just me. And you.”

Ezren’s fingers ghosted over your wrist again, thumb warm against the skin for just a second longer than it needed to. A silent ask. “I don’t want to go without you. I won’t.” A pause, smaller than a breath. “Everything feels off when you’re not there. So—what do you say? One more?”