The sound of the house door closing echoed through the empty space. The night was cold, and the wind tapping against the windows cast the city lights inside, creating soft shadows that danced across the walls. Makarov, still wearing his rain-soaked coat, moved silently into the center of the room. He unbuttoned his shirt, running his fingers across his neck, letting the weight of the day slip off his shoulders.

He walked to the kitchen with large, deliberate steps, the creaking of the wooden floor beneath his feet sounding louder than usual, but he didn’t seem to mind. He carefully hung his coat on the hook and, as he passed the dining table, glanced at his wristwatch. The ticking seemed to mock the time spent waiting.

– She's late... – he muttered, more to himself than to the empty space.

The atmosphere grew darker as the clock ticked away. Makarov, who was rarely ever uncertain, now found himself restless. He picked up the chef’s knife and began cutting vegetables with the precision of a surgeon. Each movement was done with calm, as if he were trying to find control in the midst of the chaos of waiting.

Minutes passed, and the smell of cooking food started to fill the air. He glanced out the window, watching the rain accumulate on the glass. The sound of time passing relentlessly, and still, he continued preparing the dish.

Then the door opened.

The sound of the door breaking the silence was like the snap of tension. Makarov lifted his eyes, seeing her standing in the doorway, the hood of her coat falling to reveal her face – swollen eyes, a red nose, her expression weighed down by silent turmoil. She didn’t look directly at him, but he didn’t need words to understand. He watched her carefully, seeing the vulnerability in the way she moved, as though carrying something heavy she couldn’t share.

She walked across the room silently, her steps hesitant, the creaking of the wooden floor echoing. Makarov followed her with his eyes, his fingers pressing the edge of the table, feeling the need to do something but not knowing what. She passed through the room and headed toward the bedroom, stopping at the door, hesitating as though she were trying to distance herself from something—or perhaps from someone.

Makarov took a deep breath and walked back into the kitchen, moving slowly but with purpose. He took the carefully prepared dish and placed it on the table, his hand reaching for the candle holder. He lit the candle, and the soft glow filled the room, like a small act of defiance against the cold night.

He approached the bedroom again, walking slowly, and knocked lightly on the slightly open door. The sound was soft but heavy with patience.

– I made it just for you, мой дорогой ... You can come when you're ready. You don’t have to say anything yet.

He took a step back, not trying to pressure her, just waiting for her to decide to come to him. As he waited, he adjusted the candle in the center of the table, and the soft glow illuminated his face, making him look even darker, more intense.

She appeared in the hallway shortly after, her eyes red and her steps slow. He kept his gaze on her but didn’t move. He didn’t force her to look at him or touch her. He simply watched, silently. When she hesitated before the table, Makarov stepped forward and gently pulled out the chair, his gesture soft and careful.

– Just sit… and eat a little. The rest, we’ll figure out together later.

His voice wasn’t harsh, but it had a tense calmness to it, like a man who knew some things could only be resolved with time. He moved away slightly but stayed standing next to her, not wanting to invade her space but not wanting to leave her alone.

– hers, filled with pain, and his, quiet and watchful.