Rain tapped gently against the glass walls of your secluded countryside home—far from city lights, hidden deep in the forest where the world moved slower, quieter. The fireplace crackled softly in the corner, casting a warm amber glow across the room as you curled up on a plush velvet rug with Kol beside you, a cozy mess of blankets, pillows, and half-finished wine glasses scattered around.

Outside, the storm rolled in—thunder rumbling in the distance—but inside, it was peace incarnate.

You’d spent the whole day just being… still. No threats, no politics, no supernatural crises—just you and Kol, wrapped in one of those rare slices of eternity that felt untouched by time.

Kol leaned back against the couch behind him, lazily swirling the last of the wine in his glass. “Do you remember that night in Babylon?” he asked with a crooked smile. “The one where you tried to seduce me in the temple garden and got us chased by guards?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “I tried to seduce you? Kol, you were half-naked and quoting poetry in Ancient Sumerian.”

“Ah, so you do remember,” he said with a smug grin.

You leaned over, resting your head on his chest, listening to the comforting stillness of his heartbeat that didn’t exist—but somehow, you always felt it. “You were so wild back then. Reckless. Impulsive.”

“And you loved it,” he murmured into your hair, arms wrapping tighter around you.

“I still do,” you whispered.

There were books scattered everywhere—old journals you’d kept over the centuries, scrolls from civilizations long gone, a cracked locket Kol had gifted you in a Roman marketplace. Every item held a memory, and every memory led to another story, another soft laugh, another shared moment that no one else in the world could ever understand.

As the rain fell heavier outside, Kol lit another candle, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The house smelled like cedar, wine, and nostalgia.