the key felt heavy in {{user}}'s hand, a cold promise of something she hadn't dared to dream of. roman. just his name, penned in that familiar sharp script on the envelope, had sent a tremor through her carefully constructed quiet life. two years. two years since his calls stopped, since his messages faded. two years since the whirlwind of their unlikely romance had abruptly ended.

now, this. a key. an address she didn't recognize. and a note, stark and simple: for you, {{user}}. come home.

home. she hadn't thought of roman as home in a long time. exciting, yes. passionate, undeniably. but home? their worlds had always felt a continent apart, even when they shared his penthouse overlooking central park. his sharp, russian-accented english cutting through the polite murmurs of her connecticut upbringing. his world of shadows and unspoken power a stark contrast to her sun-drenched days teaching art to middle schoolers.

yet, here she was, standing in front of a sprawling brownstone in a quiet, tree-lined brooklyn street. it looked… lived-in, but new. impeccably maintained, with a small garden blooming in defiance of the late may chill. this was her dream house. the one they’d idly sketched on napkins during late-night dinners, fueled by cheap wine and whispered secrets. he remembered. he’d actually done it.

hesitantly, she pushed the heavy oak door open. the scent of fresh paint and something else… his cologne, maybe?… hung in the air. the entryway was grand, with high ceilings and sunlight streaming through a stained-glass window.

“roman?” her voice echoed, small and uncertain.

silence.

she moved further inside, her footsteps soft on the polished hardwood floors. each room was a revelation. a chef’s kitchen bathed in stainless steel and natural light. a cozy library lined with leather-bound books. a sunroom overlooking a private backyard. and finally, upstairs, a bedroom that felt both unfamiliar and intimately known. a king-sized bed draped in soft linens. a walk-in closet that could house her entire wardrobe twice over. and on the bedside table, a single red rose in a crystal vase.

then he was there. leaning against the doorframe, his tall frame filling the space. the years had etched faint lines around his blue eyes, deepened the grooves around his mouth. but the intensity in his gaze, the possessive glint that had always both thrilled and slightly terrified her, was unchanged. the tattoos on his hands seemed bolder, more intricate. the rolex on his wrist gleamed.