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“Marry me, before someone finds us again.”

We didn’t speak for hours after I told him.

About the photo. The man in the gray cap. The way my body reacted like it already knew the storm was turning back toward us.

Silas didn’t ask questions. He just held me.

He made coffee the way I liked — too sweet, barely coffee. We sat by the window while the sky bled gold, the sun dipping low behind hills that had no interest in our ghosts.

It was quiet. Not peaceful. Just… quiet.

Later that night, I showered first. Dried my hair. Wore one of his shirts and crawled into the side of the bed I always chose — the right side, the one near the window, just in case I needed to run.

But I didn’t want to run.

Not this time.

He came in a few minutes later, shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder. He looked tired. Older. But also more human than I remembered.

There were scars on his back I hadn’t seen before.

He dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and slid under the covers next to me. The mattress dipped with the weight I always trusted — even when I hated him. Even when I wanted to tear him apart.

I didn’t look at him when I asked it.

“Would you still want me if this never ends?”

He turned his head slowly. “This?”

“The hiding. The running. The blood. The questions I’m too scared to ask.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“I’d still want you if the world ended tonight.”

Something in my throat tightened.

The room smelled like his soap and clean sheets and the leftover lemon from dinner. The curtains moved with the wind. My knees were pulled up to my chest, and his hand slid over them — warm, rough, familiar.

We didn’t need to say it out loud.

But we did anyway.

“Marry me,” he said.

Just like that.

No ring. No kneeling. No rehearsed words.

Just… raw truth.

I turned my head to face him.

He was staring at me like I was the only real thing left in his world.

“Silas—”

“I’m not asking for forever. I know we don’t get that.” His voice was low, but steady. “I’m just asking for now. For a name you can wear when they come for you. For something that still feels like ours.”

My eyes burned.

“Is this your version of a fairy tale?”

“No,” he said. “This is my version of survival.”

I laughed through my tears. Shook my head. Bit my lip.

“I don’t even have a dress,” I whispered.

“You could marry me in this shirt and I’d still think I was the luckiest bastard alive.”

My chest ached.

“You really mean it?”

He brushed a strand of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers lingered at my jaw, trailing down my neck, stopping over my heart.

“Aria,” he said, like a vow. “You’ve always been the only thing I didn’t want to lose.”

And I said yes.

Not because it was smart.

Not because it was safe.

But because for once — in the middle of hell, in the stillness between wars — I wanted something that was just mine.

Even if it was borrowed time.

We married the next morning.

No rings. No music. Just him.

It was a rundown chapel by the sea — the kind of place that looked like it had weathered more storms than it should’ve survived. The white paint had chipped off most of the walls, and the cross above the altar was slanted, crooked like everything else in our story. But the windows were open, and the sound of the ocean poured in like a benediction.

I wore a white sundress.

Not bridal. Not planned. Just something soft I’d brought on a whim — thin straps, a fluttered hem, the fabric older than most of my secrets. My hair was damp from the salt air, half-pinned and falling into my eyes. I didn’t wear shoes.

He wore black.

Of course he did. Black shirt, sleeves rolled. Black slacks, belt askew. His collar open, throat bare, not a trace of ceremony on him — but his hands trembled slightly when he reached for mine.

There was no crowd. No family.

Just a half-deaf priest with shaky hands, and a boy who didn’t speak, standing in the corner and holding a book too big for his arms.

And the sea.

The sea watched us. Loud. Constant. The only witness we trusted.

Silas didn’t say much.

But his eyes didn’t leave me the entire time. Not once. Not even when the priest asked the question that should’ve felt heavier than it did.

“Do you take her?”

Silas nodded.

“Do you take him?”

I didn’t speak either. Just nodded back.

Because saying “I do” felt too shallow for what I meant.

What I meant was:
I take your silence.

I take your bloodied hands.

I take the night you left me beside my mother’s ashes and the mornings you looked at me like I was still worth saving.

I take your ghosts.

I take your name.

I take all of you — even the parts you still haven’t forgiven.
When the priest mumbled his final words and motioned toward us —

Silas didn’t wait.

He stepped forward and kissed me.

Soft.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just… sure.

Like he’d waited years for this. Like every other kiss had been a prelude to this one. My hands slid up his chest, curled into his collar. His fingers slipped into my hair and held me still, like he couldn’t bear the thought of pulling away too soon.

When it ended, I was smiling.

I hadn’t even realized I could still smile like that.

Silas didn’t smile back. Not really. But his eyes softened in that rare way they did — like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I’ve never believed in anything,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone. “But I believe in this.”

The chapel didn’t have bells.

But the sea roared louder.

And it felt like enough.

The days after the wedding blurred into something soft.

Like waking from a long nightmare, only to realize you’re still tired — but finally safe enough to sleep.

I started painting again.

Not for anyone. Not for display. Just for myself.

We turned the tiny back room of the seaside house into a makeshift studio. The windows faced the water. Light spilled in like honey in the mornings. I would sit there in one of his old shirts, barefoot, brush in hand, and let the silence stretch as long as it wanted.

Most of my paintings didn’t make sense.

Just color. Emotion. Memory.

Things I couldn’t name but could finally release.

Silas carved wood.

I caught him doing it one morning when I came in for coffee. He didn’t hear me at first — his hands steady, his blade moving carefully across the edge of what looked like a broken chair leg. But it wasn’t. It was the start of something else. A shape I didn’t recognize yet.

“You never told me you could carve,” I said.

He didn’t look up, just kept working.

His voice was quiet. “Never had a reason to.”

I crossed the room, leaned against the table, studied the way his fingers moved — rough, practiced, like muscle memory from another life.

“What are you making?” I asked.

He glanced at me, then down at the wood.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But when I figure it out… it’ll be yours.”

My heart caught in my throat.

No one had ever made something for me just because.

That night, the wind picked up.

The sea sounded angry.

We stayed in — played music on the old radio, made pasta in a chipped pan, fell asleep on the couch halfway through a movie neither of us understood. I woke up sometime past midnight — the screen dark, Silas’s arm heavy around me, his breath warm against my shoulder.

And then I heard it.

The creak.

At first, I thought it was the wind. Or a dream. But when I sat up, Silas was already awake — eyes open, body tensed, completely still.

He held a finger to his lips, and I didn’t move.

Another creak.

Front door.

He moved silently. Grabbed the knife tucked beneath the armrest. Slipped into the hallway like a shadow. I followed behind, slower. Barefoot. My pulse so loud it made my ribs ache.

The front door was open.

Just a crack.

We searched the whole house.

No one was there.

Nothing was missing.

Except the quiet — that sacred, untouchable quiet we’d found together.

When we came back into the living room, Silas checked the locks again. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at the door like it had said something cruel.

I whispered, “They didn’t take anything.”

He nodded once. “Exactly.”

I knew what it meant.

This wasn’t a robbery.

It was a message.

A warning.

Silas didn’t go back to sleep that night.

And I didn’t paint the next morning.

Because the truth settled in like salt on an open wound:

We were found.

And someone wanted us to know.