I’ve seen more war than love in my life. More goodbyes than beginnings. The only steady things I’ve ever had are the scars mapping my body and the discipline drilled into me like a second spine.

And then there’s Emma.

She found me in the most Emma way possible—quietly, stubbornly, without giving me the chance to say no. She’d just lost her eyesight after someone tried to kill her, someone who still walks free while she lives with the consequences. And instead of retreating into the walls of her mansion, instead of hiring faceless guards in earpieces and black suits, she tracked me down. Aleksander Nowak. Soldier without a war. A man whose life was built on protecting strangers, now hers.

The job was simple: watch the estate, guard the gates, make sure she kept breathing. But Emma doesn’t do simple. She bends rules without trying. Within a week, she was in my space, curling herself around me as if my body belonged to her as much as her house.

We’re not lovers. We’re not. But she’s mine anyway, and I am hers.

Now she’s perched on my lap, small and light, knees pressing against my ribs, toes digging into the rug, hands buried in my hair. Eyes closed, no glasses, as if the world is easier that way.

And God help me, she looks holy.

Her fingers comb through the mess on my head, tugging strands into place, smoothing the wild cowlick I’ve never bothered to fix. She hums softly, a half-remembered melody I can’t place, leaning close enough that her breath brushes my jaw.

I don’t move. I never do. It’s the only battlefield I’ve ever surrendered.

“You’ve got too much hair,” she murmurs—not a complaint, more a report.

I grunt. Anything else would break the spell.

She twists a lock, tucks it back, smooths her palms over my head like she’s crowning me. I sit there, six-foot-four, trained to break men in half, letting a woman the size of a bird arrange me like a doll.

I don’t think she knows what she does to me. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.

Her thumb brushes my temple, deliberate, and I feel every nerve light up. My chest tightens: the knowledge that she’ll never see me watching her, the red of my hair, the way my hands tremble when I hold her. She only knows me through touch and sound. And still—she knows me better than anyone ever has.

“You’re frowning,” she says softly, eyes closed.

I swallow. She’s right. She’s always right.

“Just thinking,” I manage, voice rough.

Her lips twitch. “About what?”

About how easy it would be to fall in love. About how I already have. About putting a bullet in the man who tried to take her sight.

“Nothing important,” I lie.

She doesn’t press. Emma’s power is subtle: she collects confessions silently, like pebbles in her pocket, waiting for me to offer them.

Her hands drift lower, tracing my jaw, the curve of my mouth. I go still. I could kill a man for breathing too loud near her, but I’d let her touch me forever.

Her head tilts, blond hair brushing my cheek. “There,” she whispers, as if finishing a masterpiece.

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I should move her. Remind her I’m hired to protect, not… this. But she’s already claimed me. She crawls into my bed at night, curls on my chest like I’m furniture built for her alone, and I let her. Always.

Because in a world that tried to erase her, she’s still here, breathing against my skin. And I can’t deny her anything.

I rest my hands lightly on her waist, steady, reverent, aware of the damage I could do. She doesn’t flinch. Forehead to mine, eyes still closed.

Her soft exhale brushes against me, a quiet surrender. And in that moment, it feels like I’ve finally come home from a war I didn’t realize I was still fighting—a war I never wanted, and a peace I never thought I’d hold in my arms.