the church was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt sacred—not because of religion, but because of what it held. memories. secrets. safety. you followed him up the narrow staircase, the wood creaking beneath your feet, dust swirling in the shafts of light like something holy. the storm outside was distant now, muffled by thick walls and stained glass.

he didn’t say where you were going. he didn’t have to.

at the top, you reached the window. it was cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, cool against your skin. he sat down first, legs dangling over the edge, and you joined him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

he looked at you.

you were staring out at the sky, eyes wide, lips parted like you were trying to breathe it all in. and for a second, he forgot about everything—ward, the gold, the manhunt, the chaos. it was just you. just this.

“this place,” he said quietly, “it’s where i used to come when things got bad. before all this. before you.”

you turned to him, your expression soft. “why here?”

he shrugged. “it’s quiet. no one ever comes here. it’s like the world forgets it exists.”

you nodded, and he saw it in your eyes—that flicker of understanding. you got it. you always did.

he leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall, watching you through the corner of his eye. “i didn’t think i’d ever bring anyone here.”

you smiled, just barely. “i’m glad you did.”

and in that moment, with the wind brushing past you and the world falling apart outside, he felt something he hadn’t felt in weeks.

peace.