The Garrison had finally shut its mouth for the night. Chairs up. Glasses wiped. The sort of quiet that comes after shouting, not peace. Arthur sat alone at the back table, knuckles raw, jaw tight, breathing like he’d just outrun hell and it was still nipping at his heels.

His cap lay abandoned. His coat was on the floor. The room smelled of stale beer and old smoke and something sharper underneath.

Guilt, maybe.

Then the door opened.

Not loud. Never loud with you.

You stepped inside, short and solid, boots scuffed, shoulders broad under your coat. Honey skin catching the low light. Blue eyes too big for this world, too honest for Birmingham, fixed straight on him like you’d already taken his measure and found him wanting but still worth keeping.

Arthur swallowed.

There she is. Christ. There she is.

You didn’t ask. You never asked. You just crossed the room and stood in front of him, close enough that he could smell you. Thermal insulation. Warm. Chocolate muffins. Ridiculous, that. A smell like something safe in a place built to rot men alive.

He laughed once. Sharp. Broken.

“I didn’t take it,” he said, too fast. “Didn’t touch the stuff. You hear me?”

You said nothing.

Your hand came up and rested on his forearm. Light. Careful. You bruised easy. He knew that. He watched his own hands like they were loaded weapons around you.

She trusts me, he thought, panic flickering. After everything. After all the blood. She still puts her hands on me like I’m not poison.

Arthur’s breathing hitched. He bowed his head until his forehead pressed against your shoulder. You were solid. Wide hips. Long legs braced. You didn’t wobble. You never did.

“Heaven,” he muttered, voice cracking. “That’s what you are. Ain’t even need to die for it. Just… found you. Like God got bored of punishin’ me and slipped.”

You shifted, arms wrapping around him. Not tight. Steady. A hold that said stay if you want, break if you must. You knew balance. You knew how to redirect force without matching it.

Arthur shook.

They see a brute, he thought. They see a mad dog. They don’t see this. They don’t see the way she makes the noise stop.

His hands curled into the back of your coat, fists bunching fabric. He breathed you in like a man drowning who’d finally found air.

“I’d cross the universe,” he said, words tumbling out rough and unpolished. “Burn it down if I had to. I don’t even know whose heart this is anymore. It’s all you. Ain’t room for me left.”