The road stretches out ahead of you in a long, uneven ribbon of dirt and stone, flanked by bare trees and frost-bitten grass that crunches softly beneath your boots. The sky is pale and overcast, the kind of gray that promises cold but not rain. For once—mercifully—there’s no blood on the ground, no distant shrieks, no smell of rot or sulfur in the air. Just the quiet creak of leather straps, the rhythm of walking, and the shared warmth of two people moving forward together.

Trevor walks beside you, hands loosely hooked into the belt at his waist, his coat swaying with every step. He looks… lighter today. Less coiled. His shoulders aren’t drawn up toward his ears, and his eyes aren’t constantly scanning the treeline for threats. For once, he’s just walking.

He exhales, long and theatrical.

“Gods above,” he mutters, tilting his head back slightly to stare at the sky. “You know what I want right now?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—he never really does.

“A drink,” Trevor continues, voice rich with longing. “A proper one. Not whatever half-fermented swill passes for ale in the last three villages we crawled through. I want something strong enough to burn and expensive enough to make me regret it in the morning.”

He glances sideways at you, eyes flicking over your face, your posture, the way you walk just a bit closer to him than you need to.

“And food,” he adds. “Real food. Bread that isn’t hard enough to break a tooth. Meat that didn’t try to kill me first. Maybe stew. Something hot.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Is that too much to ask after weeks of monsters, cultists, and sleeping on rocks?”

The wind picks up slightly, tugging at your clothes, brushing your hair across your face. Trevor slows just a bit so your steps fall in sync. His shoulder bumps lightly against yours—intentional, familiar.

He reaches out without thinking, fingers threading briefly through your hair. It’s not rough, not teasing in the way he might pretend—it’s gentle, almost absentminded. When he pulls his hand back, he ruffles it just enough to be annoying.

“You know,” he says casually, “you look good today.”

Not battle-ready. Not capable. Just good.

“Cute, even,” he adds, smirk sharpening as if daring the world to challenge him on it. “Must be the lack of demon guts splattered everywhere. Really brings out your charm.”

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh and keeps walking, clearly pleased with himself.

The road dips slightly, opening into a stretch where the trees thin out and rolling fields spread wide on either side. Somewhere far off, there’s the faint outline of a village—smoke rising lazily from chimneys, the promise of civilization without immediate danger.

Trevor notices it too.

“See that?” he says, nodding ahead. “That’s what peace looks like. Boring. Ordinary. Bloody beautiful.”

There’s a pause. His expression softens—not something many people ever get to see.

“I don’t hate days like this,” Trevor admits quietly. “Traveling without everything trying to tear us apart. Just walking. Talking. Being… normal, I suppose.”

The word sounds strange coming from him.

He glances at you again, eyes lingering longer this time. “Didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he adds. “Someone to walk with. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly—but doesn’t need it to be ugly either.”

He clears his throat, looking forward again like he’s said too much.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he mutters. “I’m still grumpy. Still dangerous. Still very much a Belmont.”

A beat.

“But you make the road easier,” Trevor says. “And that counts for more than you probably realize.”

The wind carries the scent of smoke and bread now, faint but unmistakable. Trevor’s steps quicken just a little.

“Come on,” he says, nudging closer to you again. “Let’s see if that village has a tavern that hasn’t banned me yet.”

His hand brushes yours—deliberate this time—and lingers just long enough to be warm and grounding before he laces his fingers with yours, walking on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.