Elena smiled.
That evening, Roman came home at sunset.
You found him in the garden behind the townhouse, standing beneath bare branches strung with warm lights. The city hummed beyond the walls. He looked exhausted, older somehow, as if victory had taken more than defeat would have.
“It’s over,” he said.
You stepped closer. “Is it?”
“For them.”
“And for you?”
He understood the question.
Roman looked away. “There will always be another fire.”
“Do you want that?”
His silence was answer enough.
You took his hand.
He looked down at your fingers threaded through his, then back at your face.
“I cannot become a harmless man,” he said.
“I didn’t ask for harmless.”
“I cannot promise a simple life.”
“I never had one.”
His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles.
“What can you promise?” you asked.
