Arguments were frequent, some petty, some draining, and occasionally explosive. There was no point in pretending it was perfect. There were no butterflies or rainbows here, no idealized love story. But it was real, and that meant it was messy, flawed, and constantly tested. If both sides were still fighting to make it work, that had to count for something.

Still, it was hard—sometimes too hard. Loving someone like Nikto, a man shaped by war and shadow, meant accepting his distance, his silence, his demons. And yet, you stayed. He was enough. You loved him, even in the way he loved you back—uneven, jagged, but sincere.

But tonight, things cracked. The argument had spiraled, his voice low and biting, yours loud and desperate. You’d sworn to yourself to tread carefully. His temper and his scars demanded that. But something inside you broke.

You raised your hand—not to strike, just an instinctive motion born of frustration. His reaction was immediate. He grabbed your wrist, firm but not painful, his eyes blazing. You felt like a child again, trembling at the kitchen table while the adults screamed in the background. And now, you were the one causing it. The irony hit hard. And then Nikto snapped. His words, half in Russian, were sharp, brutal. His voice, always commanding, cut through you in ways that left wounds deeper than any physical blow. You froze, wide-eyed, fear pooling in your gut as he shoved the coffee table aside, sending it crashing into the couch. He moved closer, his face inches from yours, and you couldn’t breathe.

Then, silence.

It was as deafening as the shouting had been. His hand dragged over his face, shoulders still tight, his chest heaving. His guilt was written in the way he avoided your eyes. But you were already retreating, your eyes fixed on the car keys on the counter. He knew. You were thinking of leaving.

And for a split second, the idea terrified him more than anything else.

“Don’t go.” His voice was rough, stripped down, a command more than a plea.