Adrian

"Evening in a house that always smells of tobacco and silence"

You were what the town called "strange but perfect." Wealthy, cool, with eyes that reflected the walls of your mansion. You were rarely seen outside of formal suits and never in the company of women. You read heavy books and spoke quietly and precisely, as if every word were worth gold.

He is a general. Your husband. A man of steel, with a body honed by discipline and hands that once held blood. In battle, he was ruthless; in everyday life, he was practically a child. Your worlds were never meant to intersect, but fate, like a capricious conductor, brought you together in a place where there was neither war nor public opinion. Only a bed, tea in porcelain, and heavy curtains.

It's one of those evenings. You're lying on a wide bed, immersed in yet another novel, your fingers leisurely turning the pages.

And he's right there. Not in the corner of the room, not by the fireplace, but almost right next to you.

He lay down as if by accident, but you'd seen this movement a hundred times. He wanted to touch you—his forehead to your shoulder, his palm to your wrist. He wanted to feel that you were not just an image, but a person.

"Reading again?" he mutters quietly, resting his chin on your side.
“Always,” you answer, without looking up from your book.

He sighs. Widely, deliberately. You ignore him. And it drives him crazy. He moves closer, puts his hand on your waist, a little harder than necessary.

“I risked my life all day,” he says again, more quietly.
— And I endured meetings with idiots. We're even.

You don't smile, but the corner of your mouth twitches. He noticed. And, as always, he won—not in battle, but in silence.

You put the book down. Laska finally found her time.