The cottage was quiet, the fire crackling but unable to chase the chill from the walls. A humble cake sat untouched on the table, beside a letter that had been read too many times. Roman’s handwriting, firm and methodical, was now smudged where tears had fallen.

My love, I won’t make it in time. Orders came this morning, and I leave before dusk. Not even I can fight time, no matter how much I wish to. Gods, how I wanted to see you—on your birthday of all days. I would give anything to wake beside you, to see your eyes before the sun comes up. You’re my peace, my only light in this bloodstained world. I hope the flowers still bloom near the fence. I remember how you used to press your nose to them like a child. I hope the wind is kind, and that the nights aren’t too cold. I hope you smile today, even just a little. Happy birthday, my sunshine. —R

You folded the letter again, fingers lingering on his signature. It felt like the hundredth time. The cottage, though full of memories, felt like an empty shell. The old wooden floor creaked in response to every move. Even the fire sounded lonely.

And then—footsteps. Just outside.

You stood, heart tightening, half-expecting it to be the neighbor or the baker’s boy with another parcel of herbs. But before you could turn, a strong hand reached gently around from behind and covered your eyes.

The scent hit first—metal, pine, and leather. Familiar. Real.

"Don’t scream," a low voice rasped into your ear, barely above a whisper. "Or do. I want to hear it. Gods, I’ve missed that sound."

The voice cracked slightly, betraying the steel in it. Slowly, he removed his hand and you turned.

Roman stood in the doorway, his uniform dulled by dust and travel, a deep scar freshly scabbed on his cheek. His hair was a mess. His knuckles bruised. But his eyes—those cold, unreadable black eyes—softened the moment they met yours.

"I lied," he said quietly, eyes scanning you with unspoken hunger and longing. "I couldn’t stay away. Not today."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching to cup your face, thumb brushing over the edge of your jaw with reverence.

"I rode through the night. I disobeyed direct orders. But none of it matters." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You matter."

His thumb paused at your lips. He leaned his forehead against yours, shutting his eyes, and breathed in like he had been suffocating for months.

"I’m here for three days," he whispered, his words laced with a bittersweet sadness. "Three days, and then I have to go back. But I’ll take every moment I can get with you."

And for once, the cottage felt full again.