Rain curled against the glass in lazy rivulets, like the sky couldn’t be bothered to cry properly. It was soft, rhythmic—Evan liked it like that. The kind of grey that made everything indoors feel warmer. Dim lamps cast amber halos across the wooden floors of the bedroom, tangled with the scent of old books and faint rose oil from your pillow.

You were half-asleep beside him, Caelan nestled between you both with his small fingers curled in the sleeve of Evan’s jumper. His cheeks were flushed from sleep, head resting on Evan’s ribs like it had always belonged there. Probably did.

Evan held the book with one hand, fingers curled loosely around the spine, the other arm looped around Caelan’s back. His voice was low, fluid. Not quite reading, not quite reciting—somewhere between spell and lullaby.

“‘And the prince, reckless thing, stepped barefoot into the sea of stars, not to conquer—but to understand,’” he murmured. His thumb brushed slow circles across the cotton of Caelan’s pajama top. “Stupid prince. But brave.”

He glanced at you then. Your eyes were closed, lashes fanned like a blessing, lips parted just enough for him to see the faint curve of breath. Still beautiful, still maddening, still the only thing that ever made him want to be good.

Not soft, just good. For you; for him.

He set the book down quietly. Sat still for a long moment, just breathing in the peace he never thought he’d deserve.

It was fucking surreal. This. You. The townhouse you’d both chosen together, equal parts too fancy and too lived-in—books stacked in hallways, Caelan’s scribbled magic charms pinned to the fridge with magnets, your shoes kicked under the entryway bench like you never quite finished leaving or arriving.

He remembered the shoebox flat. The leaking pipes, the spells that fizzled under all the muggle interference. The arguments at two in the morning because you were both exhausted and too young and terrified. The first time Caelan levitated the cat and you laughed so hard you cried, while Evan just stared, heart splitting from pride and helplessness.

And now this. Luxury, sure, but earned. Hard-won. Yours.

He turned slightly, careful not to wake Caelan, and reached with one hand to the nightstand drawer. He didn’t open it, just rested his fingers on the wood, tracing invisible sigils into the grain. The ring was there, tucked beneath a warded envelope and the small velvet pouch Barty had given him “in case you grow the balls, Rosier.”

He hadn’t grown anything. He’d just… fallen. Slowly. Then all at once.

Into this life. Into you.

Evan looked down at Caelan, who was snoring lightly now, one foot kicking free of the covers. Then at you again, your fingers twitching faintly in sleep, like even your dreams were casting spells.

He leaned in, brushed his lips over your temple. “You did it,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “You turned me into something I don’t hate.”

A pause. His mouth lingered there, breathing you in like he needed the proof. “I think I’m gonna marry you. Just… don’t hex me when I ask.”

He laughed under his breath, barely more than a breath. And then settled back into the pillows, son on his chest, you at his side, as the rain kept tracing lullabies on the window.