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Hand in hand, we leave the nursery. I feel a sigh slip from my lips. There was a time when the night was my ally, a cloak for my operations as the Ghost. Now, it's different. The darkness is a backdrop for irreplaceable, quiet family moments like this one.
Roman's fingers tighten around mine. "Everything okay?"
I look up at him. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, it's as if an entire universe of unspoken words is exchanged. "Yes," I whisper, "everything is more than okay."
I slip under the covers, relishing the warmth and the feel of Roman beside me. He turns his head and gives me that look, a smoldering glance I've learned to read all too well.
"So, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by thunder and parental duties?" he asks, leaning in to capture my lips in a kiss that's as soft as it is electrifying.
The world narrows down to this moment, to the sensation of his lips moving against mine, to the warmth radiating from him and enveloping me. My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer.
Just when it seems like we're about to forget about the world outside this bedroom, another rumble of thunder rolls through the sky. The atmospheric percussion is quickly followed by a high-pitched wail from Milenoë's room.
Roman groans and drops his forehead to mine. "Timing," he mutters, half in frustration, half in amusement.
"Yeah, your daughter has impeccable timing," I say, tracing a line down his cheek with my thumb.
He pushes off the bed, the springs creaking in mild protest. "I'm on it," he assures me, heading for the door. But just before exiting, he turns and shoots me a playful grin. "This time, I'm bringing a pillow for myself. No more crib gymnastics tonight."
My laughter follows him out of the room, a lighthearted echo in the midnight air. With another fond shake of my head, I settle back into the pillows, listening to the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the windows. I can't help but marvel at the domesticity of it all.
It's a far cry from the nights filled with danger and subterfuge, from the times when every shadow could have been an enemy, every sound a signal of doom. And though those elements are still present—hazards that come with our particular line of work—the dangers outside seem less ominous when countered by the sanctuary we've built within these walls.
As I lie in the dark, my thoughts drift to Roman. His quick wit, his unshakable support, and the love he's not afraid to show. For our kids, for me. It makes me think that, even in a world fraught with peril and uncertainty, some things are worth risking it all for.
Another peel of thunder rolls through the sky, softer this time, as if it too has been subdued by the serenity filling our home. And even though I can hear the soft lullabies Roman sings to Milenoë through the baby monitor, I know he'll be back. With a pillow under his arm and love in his eyes. And when he returns, I'll be here, ready to pick up right where we left off—unfinished kisses and all.
For now, though, I close my eyes and let myself drift in the soothing sounds of rain and distant lullabies, comforted by the thought that even when life's storms rage the loudest, we've built something unbreakable together. And as I teeter on the edge of sleep, I can't help but feel grateful for this perfect, imperfect life we've created.
I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.
Epilogue II
ROMAN
Thirteen years later…
"Alright, son, hands at ten and two," I instruct, trying to maintain a calm facade despite my own bubbling nerves.
Time has a way of slipping through your fingers, of turning the unimaginable into everyday reality. It seems like just yesterday Ilya was a boy, stumbling around the living room, his eyes wide with wonder at the world around him. And now here he is, seventeen years old, tall and strong, sitting nervously in the driver's seat of a car. It's a rite of passage, a symbol of independence and maturity. But as his father, it's a moment that fills me with a confusing cocktail of pride, excitement, and trepidation.
Ilya's hands hover over the steering wheel, hesitating as if it's a live snake. "Are you sure about this, Papa? Maybe I should take some professional lessons first."
"Nonsense," I retort, injecting humor into my tone. "You've got the best instructor in all of Russia right here. Besides, who's going to teach you how to properly evade pursuit and execute high-speed maneuvers? A driving school?"
He chuckles, visibly relaxing. "I'm not sure those skills are part of the regular curriculum."
"Exactly," I quip. "Alright, first thing's first. Foot on the brake."
His foot descends on the pedal, tentative but steady. Good.
"Now, shift the gear into Drive."
He does so, his knuckles white with tension.
"And now, my boy, the most important part," I say with a dramatic pause, "press the gas pedal, gently."
The car jerks forward, wobbling like a newborn calf taking its first steps. My heart leaps into my throat, but I swallow it, putting on a brave face for Ilya's sake.
