“Both.”
He smiles. Truly smiles. Soft and real and so rare it makes my chest hurt.
“Come here,” I whisper.
He leans down. Our noses touch. I close my eyes, breathe him in.
“Two weeks,” I say.
“Two weeks.”
“And then you come home.”
“And then I come home.”
“Promise?”
“I already did.”
“Promise again.”
His other hand finds my stomach. “I promise,malyshka. I’m coming back. To you. To this. To us.”
Us.
The word sits heavy and perfect between us.
“I’m going to miss you,” I admit. “So much.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to worry.”
“I know that too.”
“I’m probably going to cry at least three times.”
“Only three?”
I laugh despite everything. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
So I kiss him.
Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that says all the things we haven’t said out loud yet.
When we pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Two weeks,” he says again.
“Two weeks.”
He pulls me to my feet, careful, steadying me when I sway. Then he wraps his arms around me—tight, almost too tight—and holds on like he’s the one afraid to let go.
“I’ll call when I can,” he murmurs against my hair.
My chest tightens. “When you can?”
