She caught him smiling a few times, as if he had been waiting to hear her words strike.
Their tea went cold.
Iris stopped to freshen up their cups. She noticed that the wind was still blowing. Every now and then, a tendril would sneak into the kitchen, fluttering the papers on the table. The breeze smelled like warm soil and moss and freshly cut grass, and she watched as the garden beyond danced with it.
She continued with her article, cutting up her memories and setting them back down on paper. She made it to the moment when the grenade went off and she paused, glancing up at Roman. He tended to scowl while he wrote, and there was deep furrow between his brows. But his eyes were alight, and his lips were pressed into a line, and he tilted his head to the side, so his hair would drift out of his eyes.
“See something you like?” he asked, not missing a beat. His gaze remained on his paper, his fingertips flying over the keys.
Iris frowned. “You’re distracting me, Kitt.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Now you know how I’ve felt all this bloody time, Iris.”
“If I was distracting you for such a long period of time … you should have done something about it.”
Without another word, Roman reached for a piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball, hurling it across the table at her. Iris blocked it, eyes flashing.
“And to think I made you two perfect cups of tea!” she cried, crumpling her own sheet to fire back at him.
Roman caught it like it was a baseball, his eyes still on his work as one hand continued to type. “Is there any chance of a third, do you think?”
“Perhaps. But it’ll come with a fee.”
“I’ll pay whatever you want.” He stopped typing to look at her. “Tell me your price.”
Iris bit her lip, wondering what she should ask for. “Are you sure about that, Kitt? What if I want you to wash my laundry for the rest of the war? What if I want you to massage my feet every night? What if I want you to make me a cup of tea every hour?”
“I can do all of that and more if you like,” he said, deadly serious. “Simply tell me what you want.”
She breathed, slow and deep, trying to dim the fire that seemed so eager to burn within her. That blue-hearted fire that Roman sparked. He was watching, waiting, and she dropped her eyes to where she had left her sentence hanging on the page.
The explosion. His hand being ripped from hers. The smoke that rose. Why had she been unscathed, when so many others hadn’t? Men and women who had given so much more than her, who would never get to return home to their families, their lovers. Who would never see their next birthday, or kiss the person they least expected, or grow old and wise, watching flowers bloom in their garden.
“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. She felt like she was betraying her brother. Lieutenant Lark. The Sycamore Platoon. “I don’t deserve to be this happy. Not when there’s so much pain and terror and loss in the world.”
“Why would you say that?” Roman replied, his voice gentle but urgent. “Do you think we could live in a world made only of those things? Death and pain and horror? Loss and agony? It’s not a crime to feel joy, even when things seem hopeless. Iris, look at me. You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to see that you have it.”
She wanted to believe him, but her fear cast a shadow. He could be killed. He could be wounded again. He could choose to leave her, like Forest. She wasn’t prepared for another blow like that.
She blinked away her tears, hoping Roman couldn’t see them. She cleared her throat and said, “That seems like quite a bit of trouble, doesn’t it?”
“Iris,” said Roman, “you are worthy of love. You are worthy to feel joy right now, even in the darkness. And just in case you’re wondering … I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to leave, and even then, we might need to negotiate.”
She nodded. She needed to trust him. She had doubted him before, and he had proven her wrong. Again and again.
Iris gave him a hint of a smile. Her chest felt heavy, but she wanted this. She wanted to be with him.
“A cup of tea,” she said. “That’s my fee for today.”
Roman returned her smile, rising from the table. “A cup every hour, I suppose?”
“That depends on how proficient you are at brewing tea.”
“Challenge accepted, Winnow.”
She watched him limp to the cooker, filling the kettle at the faucet. He didn’t like to use his crutch in the house, but it looked like he still needed it. She held her tongue, admiring the way the light limned him and the graceful movement of his hands.
Roman was just pouring her a cup of perfectly brewed tea when the siren sounded. Iris stiffened, listening as the distant wail rose and fell, rose and fell. Over and over, like a creature in the throes of death.
“Eithrals?” Roman asked, setting the kettle down with a clang.
“No,” Iris said, standing. Her gaze was on the garden, on the breeze that raked over it. “No, this is the evacuate siren.”
She had never heard it before, but she had often thought of it happening. Her feet froze to the floor as the siren continued to wail.
“Iris?” Roman’s voice brought her back into the moment. He was standing beside her, intently watching her face.
“Kitt.” She reached for his hand as the floor began to shake beneath her. She wondered if it was the aftershocks of a distant bomb, but the rumbling only intensified, as if something was drawing closer.
There was a loud pop, and Iris instantly cowered, teeth clenched. Roman pulled her back up, holding her against his chest. His voice was warm in her hair as he whispered, “It’s just a lorry. It’s just backfire. We’re safe here. You’re safe with me.”
She closed her eyes, but she listened to the beat of his heart and the sounds encircling them. He was right; the rumbling she felt was from a lorry driving by the house. The icy sweat still prickled on her palms and at the nape of her neck, but she was able to steady herself in his arms.
Multiple lorries must be driving by. Because the siren continued to wail, and the ground continued to shake.
She opened her eyes, feeling the sudden urge to look at him. “Kitt, you don’t think…？”
Roman only gazed down at her, but there was a haunted gleam in his eyes.
You don’t think this is Dacre’s soldiers? You don’t think that this is the end, do you?
He didn’t know, she realized as he caressed her face. He touched her the same way he always had, as if he wanted to savor it. As if it could be the last time.
The front door blew open with a bang.
Iris startled again, but Roman kept his arms around her. Someone was in the house, striding down the corridor with a heavy tread. And then came a voice, unfamiliar yet piercing.
“Marisol!”
A woman appeared in the kitchen. A tall soldier, dressed in an olive-green blood-splattered uniform. A rifle was strapped to her back, grenades to her belt. A golden star was pinned above her heart, revealing her status as a captain. Her blond hair was cut short, but a few tendrils shone in the light beneath her helmet. Her face was gaunt as if she hadn’t eaten properly over the past few months, but her brown eyes were keen, cutting across the kitchen to where Iris and Roman stood, embracing.