The morning light filters through the gauzy curtains of your little Bloomsbury home, casting soft golden hues across the wooden floorboards. The scent of cinnamon and fresh bread weaves through the air, curling around bookshelves stacked with old paperbacks and dried lavender tucked into corners. There’s a teapot whistling on the stove, and the hearth crackles with a quiet fire, warming the small, lovingly worn kitchen where you move with gentle purpose—wrapped in a faded floral apron, cheeks kissed by heat and contentment.

Theo Sharpe stands in the doorway, broad-shouldered and soot-dusted from the press, but paused, caught mid-thought as he watches you. There's something reverent in his gaze, like he’s stepped into a cathedral instead of his own home. He’s still rough-edged from the world outside—ink-stained hands, coal-shadowed boots, jaw clenched from the sight of yet another noble carriage rolling past starving children. But here, in your glow, he softens. He always does.

"You're staring again," you tease, placing a warm scone in his hand. "Aren’t you late, Mr. Sharpe?"

He doesn’t answer at first—just wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, eyes scanning your face as if to memorize every freckle, every smile-line carved by joy. “Only a fool would rush away from heaven,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with something between affection and awe.

You laugh, brushing flour from his collar. “Then I must be an angel,” you say, playful.

Theo leans in, forehead pressed to yours. “No,” he whispers, “angels aren’t half as kind or maddening or brilliant as you.”

The house hums with life: your pressed flowers hanging in the windows, the lemon soap you make by hand, the little blue armchair he always finds you curled in with your knitting, your head tilted with thought and love. He built this life with calloused hands, brick by stubborn brick, but it’s your joy, your relentless warmth, that made it a home.

Outside, the city groans and grinds. But in your little corner of London, Theo Sharpe—printer, cynic, rebel—is hopelessly, helplessly lost in the gentle spell of the woman he’ll never stop calling “mine.”