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The church still smelled faintly of smoke.
Italy had a way of holding onto ghosts—incense ground into old stone, melted wax in the cracks of the floor, the echo of boots that had marched through too many times. The flags Paddy had burned days ago were gone now, reduced to ash and memory, but the place still felt altered. Claimed.
Paddy lay awake on his cot, staring at the ceiling of the requisitioned building that passed for barracks tonight, listening to the uneven breathing of men who were finally sleeping. Men who had survived. Men who hadn’t.
And one man who shouldn’t have been here at all.
Eoin.
Alive.
That thought still knocked the air out of him if he let it. POW camp. Starved, beaten, half-dead, thought lost. Paddy had come apart at the seams when he’d believed Eoin gone—Reg had practically had to keep him tethered to the earth, barking orders and shoving mugs of tea into his hands like it was the only thing keeping him sane.
Then the camp. The riot. Almonds breaking out together like hell itself had cracked open to spit them free.
And now Eoin was here, asleep not ten feet away.
Paddy turned onto his side and looked at him. The lines were sharper now, cheekbones more pronounced, scars he didn’t recognise mapped across skin he knew better than his own hands. But he was breathing. He was warm. He was real.
And Paddy knew, with a terrifying clarity, that he could not—would not—let him go again.
Not to war. Not to fate. Not to a world that seemed hell-bent on tearing them apart.
He swung his legs off the cot and crossed the room quietly, crouching beside Eoin. For a moment he just watched him sleep, memorising the way his mouth fell open slightly, the soft crease between his brows even at rest.
Then he reached out and shook his shoulder gently.
“Eoin,” he murmured.
A grumble. A shift. Eoin turned his face into the pillow. “If we aren’t getting attacked or bombed,” he muttered thickly, “and if Stirling hasn’t died in Colditz, let me sleep.”
Paddy’s mouth twitched despite himself. He leaned closer, voice soft, steady.
“Nothing like that, lad.”
Eoin cracked one eye open. “Then it can wait.”
Paddy swallowed. His heart was hammering now, loud enough he was sure it would wake the whole room. “You want to get married.”
That did it.
Eoin jolted upright like he’d been shot, eyes wide, hair sticking up wildly. “What?”
Paddy smiled at him—small, fragile, like the truth of him was exposed. “Come on.”
Before Eoin could protest, Paddy grabbed his wrist and hauled him to his feet, dragging him out into the cool Italian night. Eoin stumbled along behind him, half-asleep and utterly confused, whispering fierce questions Paddy ignored.
They reached the church.
The door creaked open, and candlelight spilled out across the stone steps. Inside, the nave glowed softly—dozens of candles lit along the altar, their flames steady and reverent. Empty pews. Silence. Sacred and stolen all at once.
Reg stood just outside the door, rifle slung over his shoulder, pretending very hard not to grin. He gave Paddy a sharp nod and turned away, taking up lookout.
Eoin stopped dead.
“Blair,” he breathed, voice breaking. “What—”
Paddy turned to face him. In the candlelight, Eoin looked almost unreal, eyes bright with unshed tears, lips parted in shock.
“I can’t do it again,” Paddy said quietly. “I can’t lose you. Not to camps or bullets or bloody orders. This world’s already illegal enough for us, so I’m done asking it for permission.”
Eoin shook his head, overwhelmed. “Paddy—”
Paddy dropped to one knee on the cold stone floor.
Eoin let out a broken sound. “Oh God.”
“I don’t have a ring,” Paddy said, voice thick. “And there’s no priest, and no witnesses that would dare write it down. But I love you. I’ve loved you through war and wire and hell itself. And if tomorrow takes one of us, I want tonight to mean something no one can touch.”
Eoin stared at him for a heartbeat longer—
Then he lunged forward and tackled him to the floor.
“Of course,” Eoin sobbed, clutching him tight, laughter and tears tangled together. “Of course, you stupid Protestant.”
Paddy laughed wetly into his shoulder, arms wrapping around him like he was anchoring himself to the world. They lay there on the stone, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
They stood together before the altar, hands clasped.
“I promise,” Paddy said, voice shaking, “that wherever I am, you’re home. That I’ll choose you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Eoin squeezed his hands. “I promise I’ll fight my way back to you every time. That if the world won’t let us live honestly in it, I’ll build a life with you anyway. Even in the dark.”
Paddy’s tears slipped free then, silent and unashamed, as he pulled Eoin into his arms and held him like he was the only thing left in the world.
They kissed—not hurried, not desperate, but deep and reverent, pouring every unsaid fear and stubborn hope into it.
Outside, Reg sniffed loudly and turned his face away from the door, smiling to himself.
For once, Paddy Blair was finally, completely sane.
And he was married to the man he loved.