Page 239 of Arrow

I followed them to his bedroom, leaning against the doorframe as Harlowe tucked him under the covers. She sat on the edge of the bed, her voice soft as she began reading about a little boy who wanted to be an astronaut. Luca’s eyes grew heavy, his breathing evening out as sleep claimed him.

I watched them both—my wife, my son—and felt something crack open inside me. This was what it meant to be vulnerable. This was what it meant to love someone so much that their happiness became your own.

Harlowe looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the same emotion I felt. She set the book aside and stood, crossing to where I waited in the doorway.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered, closing the door softly behind her.

I pulled her against me, burying my face in her hair. She smelled like flour and strawberries. I breathed her in, feeling the weight of the day—the cemetery, the memories, the grief—begin to lift from my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice rough. “For loving me. For staying.”

She pulled back to look at me, her hands framing my face. “There was never any other choice.”

We moved to our bedroom, shedding our clothes with the ease of long familiarity. Her black dress pooled on the floor beside my discarded shirt and pants. I traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the tattoo under her breast.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked, her fingers hovering over the highest of my scars.

“Only when I breathe,” I said with a small smile.

She pressed her lips to the raised flesh, and I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. The bullet had missed my heart by less than an inch. The doctors said I shouldn’t have survived. But I had. Because of her. Because of our son.

“Come here,” I murmured, pulling her up to face me.

She kissed me deeply, her hands sliding around to my back, tracing the exit wounds. I stiffened, and she immediately gentled her touch.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.” I cupped her face between my palms. “I want to feel everything. Even the pain.”

We made love slowly, tenderly, in the fading light of our bedroom. It was different now than it had been at the beginning—less desperate, less frantic. More deliberate. We knew each other’s bodies, knew what made the other gasp or moan. But the intensity hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened.

Afterward, I held her against my chest, listening to her heartbeat slow to match mine. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across my skin, occasionally pausing to touch a scar, a reminder of what we’d survived.

“Luca asked me today if I miss his uncle,” she said quietly.

I tightened my arms around her. “What did you tell him?”

“That I miss him every day. But that he lives on in his name, in our memories.” She looked up at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Is that the right thing to say?”

“I think so.” I brushed her hair back from her face. “He’s too young to understand the darkness that surrounded his uncle’s death. But he should know that Luca was loved. That he mattered.”

She nodded, pressing her face against my chest. I felt her tears, hot against my skin, but didn’t mention them. Some grief needed no words.

“I never expected this,” she said after a moment. “Any of it. A home. A child. You.”

“I never expected you,” I admitted. “You were a complication I didn’t want. A liability.”

She laughed softly. “And now?”

“And now you’re the center of my universe. The only thing I’m sure of in this fucked-up world.”

She lifted her head to kiss me, her lips soft and warm against mine. “I love you, Arrow Romanov.”

“Even though I’m an arrogant bastard?”

“Especially because you are.”

“I love you, moya gadyuka.”⁠*