The fire in the hearth crackled, spitting embers like miniature stars into the dimness of Arrow House. Thomas stood just inside the doorway of the sitting room. He'd been out longer than he’d intended, the business in Small Heath dragging him down into its murky depths, as it always did. But now, back within these walls, a different kind of unease prickled at him. It was the kind that came from seeing something so starkly juxtaposed with the life he knew, a life carved from steel and smoke.

{{user}} was kneeling before the settee, her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly around her holy book. Her lips moved silently, a soft whisper against the stillness of the room. She was utterly lost in her prayer, her body rigid with devotion.

Thomas watched her for a long moment, his usual scowl softened with a strange, almost hesitant tenderness. He leaned against the doorframe, his shadow lengthening across the floor. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low rumble that broke the fragile silence.

"{{user}}..." He said, the name a rough caress on the air. "You'll catch a cold if you kneel on the cold floor like that."