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I realized, standing there with sunlight pressing warm against my back and the scent of sage sharp in my nose, how much invisible weight I had carried, how tension had shaped the very way I moved through the world. That first inhale—full, unguarded, drawn deep into my chest—felt like a reckoning. I remembered a moment years before, crouched in a narrow hallway, heart pounding, fingers curled around cold steel, barely daring to breathe, every muscle coiled in anticipation. Here, that memory slipped away, loosened by the openness of the sky and the steady rhythm of the land, until I felt myself unravel, not in fear, but in relief, every thread loosening, every knot untied.

For the first time in years, I could draw breath without flinching, could fill my lungs without bracing for what might come next.

Really breathe, letting the air carry away old fears with every exhale.

No more shallow, measured breaths, but deep, steady breaths that rooted me to this place, that reminded me I was alive and whole and capable of standing still. I was more than a survivor of someone else’s war. I was a man discovering, in the hush and the golden light, that peace was not just possible but real, and that I could choose it—one breath, one morning, one quiet moment at a time.

At least for now.

At least while we were here.

Days melted into one another with a fluidity I had never experienced. There was no schedule to keep, no meetings to attend, no territory to defend. Just the slow, steady rhythm of life unfolding at its own pace.

I watched Madigan’s belly grow with an awe that bordered on reverence. Every morning, I would wake before her and lie there, my hand resting gently on the curve of her stomach, feeling for movement. Waiting for that flutter, that kick, that reminder that our child was real. That this wasn’t just a dream I would eventually wake from. When the baby moved, it was like witnessing a miracle.

Every single time.

I would press my palm more firmly against her skin, mapping the shape of our child through the barrier of her body. Trying to understand the magnitude of what we had created. A life. A person. Someone who would carry pieces of both of us into the future.

“Good morning,” Madigan would murmur, her voice thick with sleep, her hand covering mine.

“Good morning,” I would whisper back, kissing her shoulder, her neck, the soft spot behind her ear. And we would lie there, tangled together, feeling our child move between us.

It was the most peaceful I had ever been.

There was a surrender in it that I never knew existed. A letting go of control, of the constant need to be vigilant, to be ready for the next threat. Here, in this place that Sinclair had given us, I could finally relax. The mountains became almost meditative. I would stand on the porch in the early morning, coffee in hand, and watch the sun rise over the peaks. Watch the way the light changed the landscape, painting it in shades of gold and amber and rose. Watch the shadows retreat as the day began.

It was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. Beautiful in a way that reminded me there was more to life than the darkness I had been born into. That there were places in the world untouched by violence. Places where people could simply exist without fear.

I wanted to give that to our child. Wanted our child to grow up here, surrounded by this beauty, this peace. Wanted our child to know a different kind of life than the one I had lived.

Madigan and I fell into a rhythm that felt almost domestic. We would wake slowly, without the urgency that had defined our time in New York. No desperate need to make the most of stolen hours. No fear that someone would discover us. Just the gentle unfolding of a new day. We would make breakfast together, or I would make it while she sat at the kitchen table, her hands cradling her belly, watching me with a soft smile that made my heart stutter.

“You’re good at this,” she said one morning as I set a plate of eggs and toast in front of her.

“At cooking?”

“At being here. At being... normal.”

Normal.

The word felt foreign. I had never been normal. Had never wanted to be. But here, with her, I understood the appeal. Understood why people fought so hard to protect the ordinary moments that made up a life. We would spend our days doing nothing and everything. Walking the property, hand in hand, talking about the future in a way we never could before. Planning the nursery. Debating names. Imagining what our child would look like, who they would become.

“I hope he has your eyes,” Madigan said one afternoon as we sat on the porch, watching the sun dip toward the mountains.

“I hope she has your heart,” I replied, pulling her closer.

She rested her head on my shoulder, her hand finding mine. “Do you think we can really do this? Raise a child here? Away from everything?”

“Yes,” I said it with more certainty than I felt. “We can do this.”

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

We made love without the desperation that had haunted us in New York. There was no frantic need to consume each other before time ran out. No fear that this might be the last time. Just tenderness. Comfort. The slow exploration of bodies we were learning to know in new ways.

I was careful with her now that she was pregnant, always aware of the life growing between us. But she was insatiable in a way that surprised and delighted me.

“I’m not fragile,” she would say, pulling me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist.