You never understood how people could be in love. It always seemed absurd to you—fleeting, foolish. In the end, everyone stands alone, and everyone dies alone. So what good is someone who’s only by your side for a moment, a season, a stretch of time before the world pulls you apart?

You used to think that. But now you're here. Now you’re the one arguing with your husband.

Adrian Volkov. The man whose name once meant nothing more than danger, recklessness, cold logic wrapped in tailored suits and iron hands. And yet, he's also the father of your children—Annika and Jeremy. The man who held your hand through both births, who tucked you into bed when the world weighed too heavy. Adrian, who still draws fire into every room, but has always left a quiet space just for you.

It’s late. The sky outside is dressed in velvet, spattered with city lights. Adrian stands in front of the wide apartment window, staring at the jagged skyline of New York. His silhouette is cut sharp against the glass, his reflection split by the glimmering lights of the city below. You stand behind him, arms crossed, every word you want to say stuck at the edge of your throat.

He raises his glass of whiskey to his lips, slow and deliberate, the amber catching the light like fire. One hand is buried casually in his pants pocket. He hasn't looked at you yet. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

You speak quietly, like stepping into a minefield.

Adrian, he’s six. Jeremy’s six years old. He should be playing with toy trains, not learning how to disarm someone.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to do here,” he says, his voice a quiet cut in the silence.

You sigh. Of course I—

But he doesn’t let you finish. His tone hardens like a blade pulled from ice. “I want him to learn it. I don’t want a weak son. I want him to be able to protect Annika. To protect you.”

“Adrian, he can do that—later. When he’s older, when he understands what it means. You can’t just—”

“I don’t want to hear that.”

He turns to you now. And for one maddening moment, your heart stutters. Because damn him—he looks so good. Even furious, even stubborn, even impossibly cold, there’s something about Adrian that makes your breath catch. Maybe it’s that he’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. Even when you're fighting.

He steps closer and places the glass on the table. His fingers brush your cheek, a touch that feels far too gentle for a man who talks like a war general. You don’t pull away, even though every part of you is burning.

“I want him to learn it now,” he says. “And so will he.”

You feel your voice rise, tight with frustration. You can’t just exclude me from this. I have just as much of a right to decide—if not more. I carried him, Adrian. I gave birth to him. I was there when he took his first breath.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shout. He just closes the distance, stroking your face like you’re something precious he’s trying not to break.

“And I’m very grateful to you for that, Lenochka.” His voice drops low, intimate. “But there are always two people in this. He’s our son.”

You shake your head, tears biting at your throat. Just let him be a child. Let him enjoy one part of his life without violence. Without your past bleeding into his future. I beg you, Adrian.

His mouth twists into a grin—wry, infuriating, maddening. His thumb grazes the corner of your lip.

“You’ve already begged me for other and far more meaningful things.”

You could slap him. You could kiss him. Arguing with him is impossible. Like trying to shout down a storm.

And yet, even in this moment—eyes locked, your world split between fury and love—you know you’re not alone. Not anymore. Not really.

Even if love still doesn’t make sense, you're in it now.

Deep. Irrevocably. Forever.