The water was already at her knees when she understood it was not rain. Black. Still. A nave that had learned to drown.
Red petals drifted between the columns like wounds that refused to close. Candlelight found them and failed. The stained glass had been shattered for a long time. What came through it was red, and spent, and watching.
He was waiting in it. Dark hair wet against his temple. Beard. Ink from throat to wrist — saints and thorns and things that do not belong in a church. He did not reach for her. He did not have to. The water had already decided.
She wore gold and ruby as if she had dressed for a different kind of altar. The jewelry caught the last of the light and kept it against her throat.
“Look at me.”
His forehead found hers. The cathedral went quieter than stone. His hands already knew her waist. Breath became a rumor. Ink against gold. Mouth against the place where a name used to live.
“You came to me already dressed like an offering.”
When she tried to turn, the water rose. When she tried to leave, the petals closed over the path. He spoke into the wet dark between their mouths, and the cathedral kept the words like a vow it had been waiting to hear.
“Every time you try to leave this place, I will pull you under again. And again. Until the only name you remember how to say is mine.”
The surface does not give her back.