Not the kind of quiet that comes from an empty room, but something softer. Warmer. Like the world has finally stopped holding its breath.

You're lying on grass. It's cool beneath your fingers, damp with morning dew. The air smells clean—no smoke, no blood, no acrid tang of panic you'd grown too familiar with.

You open your eyes.

Above you, the sky stretches endlessly. Pale blue, wisped with clouds so thin they're barely there. Sunlight filters through, warm against your skin in a way that doesn't burn.

And when you sit up—

No suits. No armor. No battlefield tension coiling in his shoulders.

Just him. In a worn-out t-shirt. Looking at you like you're the only thing in this quiet, open space that actually makes sense.