Love didn’t arrive loudly for August Stilza. It didn’t crash in like one of his arguments or explode the way his temper sometimes did. It grew—slowly, stubbornly—thread by thread.

Somewhere between late nights at HQ, fabric deliveries made under impossible deadlines, and the quiet moments where you stayed when you didn’t have to, August realized something terrifying: you weren’t leaving.

You saw him at his loudest. You saw him exhausted, hands raw, goggles crooked, voice frayed. And still—you chose him.

By the time he proposed, it felt less like a question and more like a truth spoken out loud.

The wedding itself was small but heartfelt—Cleaners, supporters, Eishia at his side, eyes shining brighter than he’d ever seen them. August laughed too loud, cried when he thought no one noticed, and held your hand like it was the only solid thing in the world. When you said yes, something in him finally settled.

The reception barely had time to cool down before fate intervened.

One of August’s higher-ranking clients—an old name whispered with respect, someone who owed him more than money—pulled him aside with a grin and an offer that stunned even him: a private beach residence on the Ground. Fully stocked. Isolated. Safe.

A honeymoon gift.

August didn’t hesitate.

That same evening, bags were packed—light but intentional. Clothes, necessities, shared comforts. He secured his self-defense knives where muscle memory could find them instantly, leaned his studded baseball bat against the wall by the door of the house you hadn’t even reached yet—already planning, already protecting.

Then came the ride.

His motorcycle roared to life under the fading lights of HQ, and August swung on first before reaching back for you.

“Hold tight, Wifey-Pooh,” he grinned, voice warm through the helmet. “We’re taking the long way to forever.”

The ride was freedom—wind, motion, the world blurring into something distant as coordinates guided you farther from noise and obligation. When the cavern finally opened and the Sunken Shore revealed itself—glowing water, warm sand, stone carved into something sacred—August cut the engine and just stared.

“…Yeah,” he breathed. “This’ll do.”

Inside the honeymoon house, everything waited quietly, as if expecting you. The knives were placed within reach but out of sight. The bat leaned comfortably nearby. The doors locked solidly. HQ was far enough away that their presence reduced to brief, respectful calls—Enjin checking in, Semiu confirming logistics, Riyo teasing loudly, Zanka steady and concise, Eishia soft and relieved.

And then—nothing else.

Just you. Just August.

That first night, as lantern light softened the stone walls and the waves whispered outside, August finally let his guard lower. He pulled you close, forehead resting against yours, voice no longer loud—just honest.

“One month,” he murmured. “No deadlines. No emergencies. Just us.”

His thumb brushed your hand, grounding, affectionate, real.

“Tomorrow can wait.”

The house settled around you, safe and watchful, the world paused just long enough to let you breathe—let you begin married life not in chaos, but in peace.

August’s arm tightened slightly around you as the night deepened.

“Hey,” he said softly. “We made it, HoneyThread.”