Morning came gently.
Not like Nod Kri — where dawn was a pale blade cutting across ice and stone — but warm. Golden. Alive.
Varka woke slowly, not from noise or duty, but from warmth.
Real warmth.
Sunlight slipped through half-drawn curtains, laying soft bands of gold across the bed. Across the walls. Across her.
He did not move at first.
He simply looked.
She was still asleep beside him, hair scattered across the pillow like spilled silk, breathing slow and steady. One arm rested between them, fingers curled loosely toward his chest as if even in sleep she reached for him.
For a long time in Nod Kri, he had tried to remember this.
The quiet rhythm of another person breathing. The rise and fall of a body beside his. The way morning light softened everything it touched.
But memory had never done her justice.
He shifted slightly onto his side, careful — so careful — not to wake her. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she made the faintest sound, something halfway between a sigh and a hum, pressing closer without opening her eyes.
His chest tightened.
Strong.
People saw her strength first. The way she stood her ground. The way she spoke plainly. The way she endured when things were difficult. He had seen it too — in the letters he never sent, in the months he was gone. She had waited without complaint. Trusted without constant reassurance.
But here, like this, she looked almost fragile in sleep.
Soft lashes resting against her cheeks. Lips slightly parted. A crease faintly visible on her brow as if she carried even her determination into dreams.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
His fingers were rougher than they used to be. Nod Kri had carved calluses into his palms, etched cold into his bones. There were nights there when he had wondered if he would ever feel something warm and gentle beneath his hands again.
Now here she was.
Real.
Alive.
His.
He let his fingertips trail lightly along her temple, down the curve of her cheek. She stirred at that, eyes fluttering but not opening, leaning instinctively into his touch.
The simple trust of it nearly undid him.
How had he been given this?
A woman beautiful enough to steal his breath even in sleep. Strong enough to withstand his absence. Gentle enough to soften the sharp edges he carried home with him.
He pressed his forehead lightly against her shoulder, breathing her in. Not frost. Not metal. Not the sterile scent of snowfields.
Her.
Familiar soap. Warm skin. The faintest trace of whatever flowers bloomed outside this season.
“I am the luckiest man alive,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than to her.
She shifted again, eyes finally opening slowly, blinking against the sunlight. When she focused on him, still half-asleep, she smiled.
Not grand. Not dramatic.
Just small. Soft. Certain.
As if she had always known he would be there when she woke.
Varka felt something in him settle — something that had been restless for months. The world beyond this room could be harsh. It could be cold. It could demand more than a man thought he could give.
But here?
Here was home.
And she was the reason why.