The night was cold, but inside his room, everything seemed silently warm.

The lights were off, only the moonlight drew the shadows on the sheets.

You were lying next to him, head on your bare chest, listening to the rhythmis sound of his heart.

It was a miracle, that sound. Because Aaron Warner was not made to love. Nor to be loved.

But there he was. With you.

His breathing was calm, his fingers distractedly tracing his back, almost as if he were recording you in his memory.

You were quiet for a while, feeling all that:

The safety, the intensity, the weight of something that could no longer be hidden.

Then you raised your face, your heart racing.

He noticed. And before I could ask what was there, you said. Shorty. But firmly.

“I love you, Aaron.”

Silence.

His chest rose slowly. The gaze was fixed on yours.

For a moment, he looked like he was going to laugh, run away, deny - as he always did.

But no.

He blinked slowly. His eyes began to shine, and you realized what few in the world have ever seen:

Aaron Warner falling apart.

He swallowed dry, his jaw cracked, as if he was trying to keep control.

But it failed.

His hands went to your face, as if you were something sacred. He looked at you like someone who looks at the impossible.

“Say it again,” he whispered, a hoarse voice. “Please.”

You smiled, your eyes watering too.

“I love you.”

He closed his eyes, as if it hurt - as if it healed.

When he opened it, he pulled you to his lap, hugging you so hard that it seemed that he needed it to keep breathing.

“My God...” he murmured against her neck. “No one ever...”

He couldn’t finish.

It just held you tighter.

Because the general surrendered. Finally.