For a moment, I let myself believe that this could last. That I could wake up like this every morning, with Clara in my arms and the rest of the world held at bay. I know better, of course. I know what peace costs, how quickly it slips away.
Right now, in this quiet dawn, I let myself want it anyway.
Eventually, the city will wake, the day will start, and I’ll have to be the man the world expects. For now, I stay where I am—silent, unarmed, with nothing between me and the world but Clara’s heartbeat and the promise of another sunrise together.
***
Sunlight climbs up the apartment walls by the time I get up, trading the hush of dawn for the background thrum of the city outside. We’ve downsized our home over the years to a penthouse that Clara chose. It’s peaceful here, even with the noise.
I follow the smell of old paper and coffee to Clara’s corner.
Her desk is buried in notebooks and glowing screens, a world away from the marble offices and gunmetal meetings of my past. She’s in her element, hair twisted up and headphones around her neck, fingers flying over the keyboard. I pause in the doorway, just out of sight, and let myself watch her.
She doesn’t notice me at first, too intent on whatever she’s reading. I see her eyes narrow in concentration, the little frown she gets when something moves her.
She murmurs, “Come on, come on,” under her breath, clicking through tabs. I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms, the familiar heat of pride creeping up in my chest.
After a moment, she glances up and spots me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” I say, smirking. “You look busy.”
“I am.” She pulls off her headphones, eyes bright. “Listen to this. I just got off the phone with that guy from the halfway house. The one who runs those job programs for ex-cons? His story is… it’s incredible. He was inside for ten years, but now he’s helping kids get out before they get trapped. I’m publishing his interview tomorrow. I think people need to hear it.”
She’s talking fast, hands animated, and I see it—the fire that never went out, only changed shape. She isn’t chasing scandals anymore; she’s telling stories that matter, quietly working to repair what the world breaks.
I cross to her, glancing at her screens, then at the mug of cold coffee near her elbow. “When’s the last time you took a break?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I lose track. Is it noon already?”
“Later,” I lie, reaching for the coffeepot. “Let me get you a fresh cup.”
She grins, a sly, fond smile. “You’re going to spoil me.”
“Someone should,” I reply. I pour her coffee, then bring the mug over, setting it beside her mouse. She closes her hand around mine for a second, grounding me there.
“Thank you,” she says, soft but sure.
I brush a thumb over her knuckles before pulling away. “Tell me about the story. Why does this guy matter so much?”
She launches into details—background, struggles, redemption, the odds he fought to get clean. I listen, genuinely, not pretending. Every time her voice catches on something hopeful, something new, I feel it—pride, and something gentler I don’t have words for. I realize I’d give her anything, fund every dream, just to see her eyes light up like this.
***
It isn’t always perfect. I still leave before she wakes sometimes, slipping into suits and cars before the city stirs. There are days I return late, my shoulders knotted with tension, bruises blooming across my knuckles from lessons taught to men who don’t understand the word “peace.” Sometimes Clara’s already in bed, curled with her laptop, eyes flickering up when the door closes.
“Rough night?” she asks, not unkindly.
“Could have been worse,” I answer, peeling off my jacket.
She studies me, careful. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “Not badly.”
She waits for me to shower, then lets me sink down beside her, the unspoken agreement that tomorrow, if I want to talk, she’ll listen. Sometimes she does press—sometimes we argue, voices sharp, old wounds poked at until we both back down.
Most nights end the same: her arms winding around me, her voice softening as she says, “I’m here, you know. No matter what.”
That’s the thing about Clara—her steadiness is a lighthouse. Even when we clash, she never lets go. I never quite believed in forgiveness until I saw it in her eyes, offered to me again and again, without strings.
