Marshall closed the umbrella and slid into his car. The rain drummed harder, a rhythm he couldn’t shake. He started the engine and checked the mirrors for anyone watching him. Clean—for now.
But he had a feeling it was going to be a very long weekend parked on Norah’s street.
Norah’s townhouse sat second from the corner—brick, narrow, tidy. One of those DC row houses that pretended security could be bought with a deadbolt and a motion light. Her living room light still burned, soft and gold against the rain-smeared glass.
She moved inside, a silhouette framed by the window. Loose hair. Probably bare feet. A mug in one hand. She wasn’t pacing—but she was thinking. He recognized the posture from years ago, when she used to sort homework problems out loud, letting the rhythm of logic soothe whatever emotion tried to intrude.
She still did that, apparently—talked with her hands, frowned when the numbers didn’t fit. She crossed to a shelf, pulled down a stack of papers, and started marking something up.
Sheer curtains. No awareness of the angle from the street.
It made him want to put his fist through a wall.
He told himself he was here to make sure the gray-suit hadn’t doubled back. But part of him—the part that refused to name itself—just wanted to see her safe, breathing, ordinary. Unaware that someone had followed her.
Headlights approached, tires hissed against the curb. A compact car idled outside her building. He straightened in his seat, pulse slowing automatically.
The driver got out—a kid, couldn’t be more than twenty. Hoodie. Baseball cap. White plastic bag in hand. Harmless. Probably.
Marshall still slid his hand beneath his jacket, fingers brushing the grip of the sidearm holstered there. He hated the reflex and appreciated the comfort it brought at the same time.
He watched Norah open the door. She was cautious—half a step back, one hand on the frame, not blocking the threshold. She checked the bag before paying, smiled once, said something he couldn’t hear. Then the door shut again.
Marshall took a deep breath as the delivery guy made his way back to the car, his fingers drifting away from his weapon as he relaxed incrementally.
He sat there with the headlights off. The habit of waiting came too easily. He leaned back against the headrest, raintransitioning to snow then melting against the windshield. He tried not to think about the way she used to hum when she worked—low and tuneless, a rhythm that got lost in her focus. Tried not to think about what she looked like when she laughed without trying. Tried not to remember the sound of her voice sayingyou should go.
But his memory didn’t take orders.
It came the way it always did when he stopped moving—sneaking through the cracks in discipline. Taking him back to that night.
The porch light had buzzed against the dark, throwing a pale circle over her steps. Norah stood inside it like she didn’t know whether to come closer or stay where she was. Her arms were folded, sweatshirt sleeves pushed up, fingers pressed white against her elbows.
Marshall had leaned against the railing, duffel bag at his feet, uniform jacket folded on top. He hadn’t wanted it to happen. But he could feel it coming, the way you feel a storm before it breaks.
“Say something,” she said finally, voice tight.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “You already did the talking.”
“I said I can’t keep doing this.” Her words came fast, like she’d rehearsed them. “I can’t live waiting for a phone call that might not come. I can’t watch the news and wonder which explosion?—”
“You think I like that for you?” he cut in. “You think I don’t picture what it’s doing to you every time I’m out there?”
“Then why go back?” she whispered. “Why keep choosing it?”
“It’s not a choice,” he said. “It’s duty.”
She laughed once, brittle. “There it is. Duty. That’s what I’ll tell people when they ask why we didn’t make it—duty.”
He took a step toward her, but she backed up, hitting the doorframe. The space between them filled with everything they hadn’t said. It was love, fear, and pride, all tangled up in silence.
“Norah,” he said softly. “You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I thought I did.” Her eyes shone, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “But I didn’t know it would mean being half of something that only exists on your leave papers.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The truth was, she was right. He didn’t know how to be both—soldier and man, protector and partner. The job came first because it had to. That was how he made the world make sense.
“You should go,” she said finally. “You’ll miss your flight.”
