Page 121 of Eternal
Damir doesn’t press me for more. He simply sits there, letting the silence flow.
When he stands up, I barely register it at first, until I see him looking down at me with that concerned look in his eyes.
“You’re tired,” he says quietly, his hand gently brushing against my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
I open my mouth to protest, to say that I can walk on my own, that I don’t need him to coddle me, but when I meet his gaze, I falter. There’s something in it, something protective, something that makes me feel safe, despite myself.
“Damir…” I start, but my voice is softer than I intended.
“You’re going to listen to me for once,” he murmurs, and before I can argue, he scoops me up, lifting me effortlessly as if I weigh nothing.
I kick my feet in mock protest, though I don’t push him away. “I can walk, you know,” I grumble, but I’m too tired to make it convincing.
“Oh, didn’t know you could.”
He carries me to the room, setting me down gently on the bed, then tucks the blanket around me with a softness that catches me off guard.
“Good night,Voron,” he says, his voice quieter now, and as much as I hate to admit it, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want him to leave.
“Good night,” I reply, but the words feel too soft, too intimate for the distance I’m supposed to keep. He doesn’t linger long, though I swear I feel his eyes on me for a moment longer than necessary.
It’s stupid. I should be asleep, should push this all away. But instead, I let the warmth linger, the softness in his touch lingering longer than I’d like.
And when I close my eyes, it’s his face I see. Focused, intent, and not at all like the man I expected.
33
DAMIR
“Dark Red” by Steve Lacy
Present
It’s been a week since I’ve seen my partner.
She still sends me a picture every day. Not of herself. Never of herself. A glimpse of something, her training gloves when I ask her what she’s doing, a half-empty cup of coffee when I ask if she’s awake, the sky before dawn when I ask if she’s okay. And I reply with the same kind of pictures. My hands on my bike when she asks what I’m doing, the training center when she asks if I’m still training, and the moon when she asks back if i’m okay.
Little things.
Things that mean nothing.
Or maybe they mean everything.
I never cared about this kind of thing before. Never thought about it, not once. Never felt anything about it. But it changed.
Maybe it was that night at her apartment, when I stayed too long for no reason at all. Maybe it was the way she looked at mewith those soft haunting eyes because she was too tired to be the same woman I know outside of our little bubble. Or when she talked to me smiling and beautiful, and thoughtful.
Or maybe it’s just this. This weird shitty sensation in my chest, slow and insidious, poisoning me worse than the missions ever did.
She hurt me. Left bruises from our fight, from the way she fought with everything she had. Because she’s strong. Too strong. And she loves it. Loves the pain, loves the violence. But something did change that night. I saw it in the way her hands shook when she thought I wasn’t looking, holding that old cover closer to her. The way her voice cracked when she talked about her mother. Her brother. The people she lost.
Grief twists people. Turns them into something new. Something dangerous. I know this.
Because it happened to me.
I killed to drown my grief. Killed to stop the ache in my ribs, to make the weight of my own existence easier to carry. To feel something other than rage and hopelessness.
That’s why we’re the same.
