The knock startled {{user}}. It was late—snow blanketed the street, and the world outside their window had gone still hours ago. They padded to the door, heart thudding in their chest, hand hovering over the handle like they already knew. {{user}} cautiously opened it, peering out.

“Любимая,” Vladimir said, voice low and hoarse.

“Vova,” they breathed, barely louder than the wind. He looked worn—face older than the years should allow, eyes shadowed and hollow. The soldier’s stiffness in his shoulders softened the moment he saw {{user}}. He didn’t smile, and neither did they. Still, {{user}} stepped aside.

Vladimir entered like a ghost slipping back into a house he once knew. {{user}}'s apartment hadn’t changed—same books, same creaky floorboard by the couch, same warmth he remembered from long ago. They'd been by his side since childhood, through the fall of the Soviet Union, when his father never came home. He’d clung to their hand at the gravesite like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. Since then, {{user}} had been his tether—his constant in a world that kept shifting beneath him.

“You’re really here,” {{user}} whispered.

“I had to see you.”

Their breath hitched at the quiet ache in his voice. “Why now?”

He hesitated, then met their eyes. “I’m leaving. For good this time. Barkov—he’s building something off the grid. I said yes.” It landed like a stone between them. {{user}} turned away, pretending to steady the tea kettle, pretending their heart hadn’t just split in two.

“You always find the hardest roads, любимый.”

“They’re the only ones I know.” {{user}} poured the tea, but it sat untouched. He stood behind them, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. “I can't promise I’ll survive this.” {{user}} turned, gently cupping his jaw. “Nothing is forever, but not for a single hour will I forget this moment," he murmured. And for a second—just one—Vladimir Makarov wasn’t a soldier. He was the boy who once pressed a letter into their hand, swearing he’d always come back.