For as long as there is breath in my lungs

It’s the way you smile now—tight, careful, like you're trying not to make it worse. The way your phone lights up and you turns it face down. The way you kiss him like you're memorizing it.

He keeps telling himself it’s nothing. That you still love him. That he hasn’t already lost you.

But every drawer you close feels like a door between the two of you. Every time you say “I’m just tired,” it sounds like a warning. Like the kind of tired you don’t come back from.

And maybe he’s making it worse—being quiet, being careful, being scared. Maybe you think he’s the one pulling away. Hell, maybe he is. Maybe you both are. Because the more he tries to hold on, the more he’s sure you're halfway gone.

And he’s not sure what hurts more: the fear that you're leaving, or the fact that he’s too scared to ask.

You know the look people get when they’re about to leave. Bob wears it every time he looks at you.

It’s in the way he lingers in doorways. The way his hands hover like he’s afraid to touch you. The way he calls you “darlin’” like it’s the last time, every time.

He’s pulling away—you can feel it in your bones. Folding his clothes too neatly, coming home later, smiling like he’s already sorry. Like he’s rehearsing the goodbye he won’t say yet.

And maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you should have asked. Said something. But the silence between you feels safer than the truth.

Because if you ask, he’ll say it out loud. And if he says it out loud, you won’t survive it.

Bucharest, 2016

The apartment was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels empty—but the kind that wraps around you like a secret. The kind that almost makes you believe that you might actually belong. The scent of simmering pasta sauce drifted through the room, mingling with the low hum of traffic from the street below. Your laugh cracked the stillness, soft and unguarded, as he smirked over a paperback romance he was reading aloud, every line more ridiculous than the last.

“You actually paid money for this?” Bucky teased, flipping a page with exaggerated judgment. His mouth twitched at the corner, amusement warming his voice. “These people say the dumbest things.”

You shrugged, trying not to smile too hard, attention fixed on the sauce. “Maybe I needed something ridiculous.”

He’d said nothing when you bought it. Just raised an eyebrow at the register while you tucked it behind a bag of pasta, pretending it didn’t mean anything. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe you wanted to believe you weren’t picking up some cheap daydream of the kind of love you’d never have.

Not with him.

He didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

Your feelings were folded neatly into the cracks of quiet mornings and the space between his silences. Held tightly in every stolen glance, every half-swallowed laugh when he said something without realizing how much it meant to you. They were never his to carry. So you didn’t ask him to.

You just…loved him.

He made it so easy—on days like this. When his shoulders weren’t drawn up to his ears, when his voice wasn’t hollowed out by guilt or fear. When he let himself be, even if it was only for an hour. You clung to those scraps of softness like they might be enough to keep you here. But they never were.

“I don’t know,” you murmured absently as he read another absurd line. “The men I’ve been with weren’t exactly the romantic type. More…” You trailed off, braving a glance at him. “Rough around the edges.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, snorted. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

You smiled. It hurt. “Yeah.”

He didn’t see the way your fingers gripped the wooden spoon. Didn’t catch the way your voice trembled under the weight of restraint.

He never did.

He just turned away, tossing the book onto the coffee table as he moved toward the couch, mumbling to himself about twenty-first century dating, shaking his head like it was all just a joke.

But none of this was a joke to you.

Your chest ached. It always ached, especially on nights like this—when it felt like something was reaching for you, just beyond your grasp. When he was so close, so there, and yet still light-years away. You stared down at the pasta sauce—long done, long forgotten—pretending you weren’t falling apart inside.

Because you knew. Eventually, you’d have to go.

You couldn’t keep pretending. Couldn’t keep drowning yourself in this quiet ache, this illusion of safety that would never be yours in the way you needed it to be. Not when he didn’t look at you the way you looked at him. Not when he’d never asked you to stay.

You stirred the sauce again, for no reason at all, and swallowed the lump in your throat.

You were in love with a man who didn’t even know he was breaking your heart.

And soon—before it got worse—you’d have to leave.

Bucharest, 2016 Three Weeks Later

The apartment was too quiet.

It hadn’t always felt this way—sterile, echoing, hollow around the edges. But now, even with the sun bleeding through the windows, casting soft light across the floorboards, it felt like a room that had already been emptied of something important. Something invisible. Something like hope.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands limp in your lap, eyes fixed on the cracks in the floorboards you’d memorized during too many sleepless nights. Your duffel bag sat half-packed beside you, gaping open, a silent dare.

He was gone. Out running errands, maybe. Or chasing shadows in alleys, following up on vague whispers of danger like he always did when the walls started closing in. He hadn’t told you where he was going. Not that he owed you that.

Not that he ever really said goodbye.

You stood slowly, your chest aching with the weight of the decision already made. It had been creeping in for days, weeks—this certainty that you couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not loving him in silence, not waking up to the smell of his coffee and the sound of his soft breathing while knowing he would never look at you the way you looked at him.

You moved through the apartment like a ghost, pulling your things from drawers with practiced quiet. Shirts folded, toothbrush wrapped in a tissue, your favorite mug left untouched in the cabinet. You didn’t take much. Didn’t want to leave holes he might notice. You told yourself he wouldn’t notice anyway.

He’d think you needed air. A break. A walk to clear your head.

By the time he figured out you were really gone, you’d be far enough that he wouldn’t bother trying to find you.

And even if he did… he wouldn’t understand why.

There were no dramatic fights. No slammed doors or tearful confessions. Just a slow, aching absence of the thing you needed most. And how could you explain that? How could you say I loved you so quietly you never heard it?

You paused at the table. The one he used to read at, sprawled in his hoodie, socked feet propped up while he scoffed at the romance novel you’d left behind. It was still there, spine cracked open to the page he last mocked.

You didn’t leave a note.

What would you even write?

"You made me feel safe. You made me feel invisible." "I love you, but that isn't your fault." "Please don’t come after me."

No. Silence was cleaner.

You pulled your coat on slowly, fingers trembling just a little as you reached for the handle. You looked around one last time—not for anything you’d forgotten, but to commit it to memory. The worn couch cushion where he always sat. The crooked picture frame you never fixed. The warmth that no longer reached you.

Then, before you could change your mind, before your heart could betray you with hope— You left.

And you didn’t look back.

Bucharest, 2016 Later That Night

The door creaked open just after midnight.

Bucky stepped inside, boots scuffing against the worn floor as he shrugged off his jacket and dropped the bag of groceries onto the counter. His breath fogged slightly in the air, and he rubbed his metal hand absently against the back of his neck as he glanced around the apartment.

Quiet.

Not unusual. You were probably asleep, curled up in that ridiculous oversized sweatshirt he always pretended not to notice you stealing from his laundry pile. He usually found you that way after his long walks—book in your lap, a blanket kicked off halfway, face soft with dreams.

But something felt… off.

He moved through the kitchen, waiting for the usual signs—your mug in the sink, a light left on, the faint scent of whatever soap you used lingering in the air. But there was nothing. Just silence, so thick it felt unnatural.

“Hey,” he called out, voice low, careful. “You still up?”

No answer.

He crossed to your bedroom door—open. No light. The bed, made. Too neat. Not like you.

A flicker of discomfort pulled at his chest as he stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room, slow. The duffel bag you always kept under the bed—gone. The drawer where you kept your books—half empty. The hoodie you wore almost every night—missing.

He stood frozen for a moment, the air thinning around him. His brows furrowed as he turned back toward the kitchen, toward the coat rack.

Your coat. Your shoes.

Gone.

His heartbeat kicked up, slow and heavy. He pulled open a cabinet. Your mug—still there. But your favorite spoon was gone. He checked the bathroom. Toothbrush—missing. Shampoo—still here. He grabbed his phone, fingers unsteady.

No messages. No missed calls.

Nothing.

“Come on…” he whispered, rubbing his temple, pacing the living room now. He looked around as if he might find you sitting there, tucked into the corner of the couch, grinning at his confusion like this was some kind of joke.

But the apartment didn’t hum anymore.

It felt abandoned.

He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth.

You left.

You really left.

And not even a note.

He let out a bitter breath, trying to keep the tremble from reaching his hands. Trying not to let his mind spin back through every moment—every time you smiled at him like he was worth something. Every quiet gesture he’d tucked away, unsure if they meant what he hoped they meant. Every almost-touch he pulled back from, afraid it would mean too much.

You’d sat two feet away from him for months, and he’d spent every goddamn day pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

Too dangerous, he told himself.

Too broken. Too far gone.

You deserved someone who could give you softness without flinching. And he didn’t trust himself to be that man—not without hurting you.

So he stayed silent.

And now, you were gone.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the place where your bag used to sit by the door. At the book you’d left on the table, spine cracked to the page he last mocked. He picked it up with careful fingers, holding it like it might still carry the warmth of your hands.

A soft, broken sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“She loved this crap,” he murmured into the empty room. “Of course she did.”

He let the book fall to his lap, covering his eyes with a shaking hand. If he let himself say your name, he might not stop.

You’d left without a word.

And still, all he wanted to do was run after you.

Because what he never told you—what he never could tell you—was that every quiet moment you shared, every simple, stupid little domestic thing, was the closest he’d ever felt to peace.

And he’d loved you for it.

Silently.

Just like you’d loved him.

And now it was too late.

Bucharest, 2016 Two Months Later

The key still fit the lock.

You pushed the door open harder than necessary, the frame groaning in protest as you stepped into the apartment—if you could still call it that. It felt like a hollowed-out memory. Cold. Bare.

Empty.

He was gone.

You didn’t need to look around to know it, but you did anyway, fingers twitching at your sides as you scanned the room like you might catch a glimpse of him, like he might be lurking just out of sight, ready to pop up with one of those half-smiles and a smartass comment about the trashy romance novel still sitting on the shelf.

Except the shelf was empty.

Gone.

Of course.

You dropped your bag by the door with a dull thud, jaw tight as you stepped further in. No boots. No jacket. No faint smell of coffee and soap. It was like he’d never even lived here. Like you had never lived here.

Then you saw it.

On the kitchen table—bare except for a single piece of paper, folded cleanly in half.

Your stomach sank before you even picked it up.

I don’t know if you’ll ever be back, but just in case. The fight called me back to the States. —B

Your eyes scanned the note once. Twice. A scoff broke past your lips before you could stop it.

Just in case.

Like you’d swing by to pick up your book. Like you were a ghost passing through—some temporary fixture he hadn’t really expected to stick around.

You crumpled the note in your fist before unfolding it again, hating how your fingers trembled, how your eyes blurred at the edges. He was gone. Back to the States. Back to war, to danger, to being hunted again. At least here, he’d been hidden. Safe. With you.

But he left.

No goodbye. No warning. No explanation.

You clenched your jaw, throat burning, anger the only thing hot enough to fight the flood of worry rising beneath your ribs.

“Idiot,” you muttered. You weren’t even sure if you meant him or yourself.

You’d come back—not for closure, not for some cinematic reunion, but because something in you had fractured the day you left, and for weeks you’d been trying to pretend it hadn’t. You thought maybe seeing him again would help you stitch yourself back together.

Instead, you found a fucking note.

You shoved it into your coat pocket, heart pounding. You didn’t know where he’d gone exactly. You didn’t care. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

He made his choice. You’d make yours.

You left the apartment an hour later, locking the door behind you without looking back. There were still jobs out there—contacts who didn’t ask questions, missions that paid just enough to keep you moving. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was familiar. It kept your hands busy, your mind distracted. That was all you needed.

You weren’t going to chase someone who didn’t ask you to stay. You weren’t going to wait for a ghost. If he wanted to disappear, so be it.

You could disappear too.

One Year Ago, BucharestThe phone rang once. Then twice.

You answered on the second ring.

“Yeah?”

There was a pause—just a beat too long—and in that breath of silence, something in your chest cracked open, a flood of memory rushing in before you even heard his voice.

“…Hey.” The voice made your chest tighten, and you forced a deep breath.

Bucky.

It had been years. No messages. No warning. Just a voice you hadn’t heard since you’d left that apartment, that you'd tried not to think about since you’d stood in a cracked hallway with his crumpled note in your hand and your heart in pieces.

You didn’t breathe. Not right away. You let the silence hang like a question, daring him to say more.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still have the same number,” he said quietly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Your voice came out sharper than you meant. “Burning the SIM wasn’t on my list of priorities.”

Another pause.

“I need your help.”

You sat back in the narrow kitchen chair of your latest safe house, one foot hooked around the leg of the table, your half-eaten meal forgotten. Your eyes scanned the small apartment instinctively, though you knew that no one was listening.

“Help,” you repeated, voice flat. “That’s rich. Last I checked, you had no problem leaving without it.”

“I know.” He didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. “But this isn’t just about me.”

That made you sit up straighter.

“I’m working with a group now. People like us. Different… but good. They need someone like you. Steady work. A place to stay. Long-term.”

You blinked. Let the words sink in. A place to stay. It sounded dangerously close to a home.

Your instinct was to laugh. But it didn’t come out.

“Bucky,” you said, leaning forward, your tone cooling. “I’m currently working for three different governments, cleaning up messes that would make the evening news bleed red for a week straight. I kill people for money. People who matter. The kind of people that don’t officially exist. You think I’m going to drop that and sign up for... what? Some little superhero collective?”

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t,” he repeated. “It’s a clean start. If you want it.”

That silenced you again.

Because he wasn’t offering judgment. He wasn’t even offering forgiveness. He was offering you a door. A quiet place to stand still. And it terrified you.

But of course, all you said was, “When do you need me?”

“Soon as you can. We’re based out of New York.”

Your throat tightened. “You still in trouble?”

“No. Not anymore.”

You didn’t ask what that meant. Didn’t ask if he was safe, or if they were safe. You simply stood, crossed the room, and started packing your bag with the kind of practiced efficiency that never left.

“Okay,” you said, one hand gripping your passport. “I’ll be on the next flight.”

He hesitated again. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t.”

You ended the call before he could say anything else. Before your voice could break.

You kicked yourself for running back to him, still running when he called. You knew that it was. You were in love with him. Had been, even when you hated him. Even when you’d gone cold and bitter and sharp with the ache of being left behind.

You tossed your phone on the bed. A new message notification blinked from the anonymous dating app you’d kept quietly alive in the background of your life—just once in a while. Just for that one guy. No name. No pictures. Just long messages at night, filled with the kind of honesty you couldn’t afford in the real world.

You didn’t open it. Not now. Not when your past had just called you back across the ocean. And not when part of you already knew, deep down in the softest, stupidest part of your heart… You would always go when Bucky asked.

Henri Coandă International Airport Bucharest → New York Gate 4B | 11:26 PM

The terminal lights buzzed overhead—cold, fluorescent, too bright for the hour. You sat tucked into the corner row of chairs, hood up, boots stretched out in front of you, fingers fidgeting restlessly with the zipper of your bag.

You should’ve been sleeping. Or eating. Or thinking about the mission ahead.

Instead, you unlocked your phone and opened the one app you never should’ve kept.

The anonymous one.

The one with the messages that you tried not to reread, but never deleted, either. Just in case. A year’s worth of late-night honesty, half-lies, and carefully worded truths with a stranger who somehow understood you better than most people who’d seen your face.

You tapped into the thread.

herghosts: heading out. long flight. not a job exactly, but… Someone needed something. going to be gone a while.

The reply came quickly, as it always did. Short bursts. No pressure.

noattachments: big move?

You hesitated before responding, then chose your words like weapons. Blunt. Controlled.

herghosts: just helping an old friend. things got complicated, i guess. I wasn't planning on it. but they asked.

Typing bubbles blinked. Paused.

noattachments: must be someone important.

You stared at the screen for a second too long, then leaned back in your chair and typed:

herghosts: old history. don’t really know what i’m walking into. feels reckless. probably is.

Another pause. Then:

noattachments: sometimes the reckless things matter more than the safe ones. you trust them?

You blinked. Your stomach tightened.

herghosts: doesn’t matter. already said yes.

A moment passed.

noattachments: well. try not to get killed. that’d ruin my week.

You smirked. Barely.

herghosts: no promises. you ever go back to something you swore you’d buried?

noattachments: once. still digging.

You stared at that for a long time. Then:

herghosts: guess we’re both idiots.

noattachments: yeah. probably.

Gate 4B lit up. Boarding call echoing overhead.

You stood, slipping your phone into your pocket without replying.

No goodbyes to say. No names that were attached to you. Just a long flight ahead and a city waiting at the other end, where your past lived with a steel jaw and blue eyes and a voice that still haunted your sleep.

The plane would take you back to him. Back into the turmoil you’d been trying to outrun for the past eleven years. 

JFK International Airport New York City Arrivals | 4:12 AM

The baggage claim carousel groaned to life.

You stood back from the crowd, hands in the pockets of your jacket, watching the endless loop of strangers collecting their lives in pieces—suitcases, duffels, tired children draped over parents’ shoulders. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too clean. The air here smelled like coffee and bleach and jet fuel.

Your stomach was in knots. You hadn’t seen him in years. Not really. Not since Bucharest. Not since the silence and the note and the weight of everything unsaid. Now you were here. In his city. Answering his call.

You didn’t even know what you was doing.

Just that when he asked—you dropped everything. And ran to him. The irony left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your phone buzzed in yourpocket.

You pulled it out, expecting a message from Bucky.

It wasn’t.

It was him. The anonymous one. The only one who’d made the nights bearable this past year. The one who never pushed. Who never pried.

noattachments: big shift happening at work. trying not to lose my mind over it. feels like i’m dragging the past into the present and pretending it’ll play nice.

You stared at the message, mouth dry as you tried to steady yourself enough to respond.

herghosts: same. currently in the middle of doing something i said i’d never do again.

The typing bubbles blinked. Then paused. Then blinked again.

noattachments: must be someone important.

You didn’t have the chance to answer. Because just then, you spotted him.

Standing off to the side of the crowd, hands in the pockets of his worn jacket, hair pulled back, jaw tight. He looked exactly the same and entirely different—like time had passed through him without asking permission. He hadn’t seen you yet.

You watched him for a moment longer than you should’ve, heart racing with the feelings that you’d spent the entire flight forcing down fighting to make an appearance, then typed one last message.

herghosts: i’ll let you know how it goes. the person who brought me out here… it’s complicated. might get messy.

You slipped your phone away, grabbed her bag off the carousel, and moved toward Bucky.

Across the Terminal

Bucky glanced down at his phone, waiting for her reply. The consistent figure he’d been messaging for the past year. The one that made his heart rate steady when he was on the brink of losing his grasp on himself.

He read the message twice, thumb hovering over the screen.

herghosts: might get messy.

His chest tightened, hoping that whatever she was up to would be easier than she was expecting. He didn’t know what to say, not with his mind racing the way that it was. So he slid his phone back into his jacket pocket and looked up.

And there you were. Walking toward him. Same eyes. Same gait. Same impossible pull.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than he meant. You stopped just in front of him, bag slung over one shoulder. “Hey,” you echoed. The tension was eating at him, but he didn’t know what to do. It felt wrong to hug you, to say anything other than the short greeting he’d already said, so he just stood there, staring.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

In the car, the city passed by in dark, wet smears of light and movement, the windshield streaked with rain that hadn’t quite made up its mind. Inside the car, it was too quiet. The only sounds were the low hum of the heater and the soft squeak of windshield wipers. Bucky drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, jaw set like stone.

You sat beside him, curled slightly toward the window, as if trying to disappear into the glass. The silence was suffocating. The kind that made everything feel louder—the shift of a jacket, the quiet creak of leather seats, the inhale held a second too long.

Your phone buzzed. You glanced at it quickly, tensing as your thumb hovered over the screen. A new message.

noattachments: landed? how’s the start of your new… “thing”? You said it was complicated, but complicated how? like “used to trust them” complicated? or “might be in love with them but don’t wanna admit it” complicated?

You exhaled softly. Tilted the phone away just slightly. Bucky hadn’t looked at you, still staring ahead, still driving, but something about the stillness in his shoulders made you feel like he’d noticed.

You typed carefully.

herghosts: weird. heavy. it’s like walking into a room where everyone already knows the ending, and you’re just waiting to realize what page you’re on. I don’t know how to describe the complication, other than… yes. All of the above, maybe? It’s just tense. And uncomfortable. Weirdest airport pickup of my life. can’t wait to fill you in later when i’m not actively avoiding eye contact and trying to decide if i want to fling myself out of a moving vehicle on a bridge and drown myself in the ocean.

You smiled, barely, both amused with yourself and glad that you could tell him anything, glad that he would be there when you were inevitably spiraling, later tonight. You locked your phone, tucking it inside your sleeve like it might burn you if you held it too long.

Another few seconds passed, the tension building to a peak, and you started actually contemplating flinging yourself out of the car.

“You texting someone?” Bucky’s voice broke the silence, low and casual—but something about the way he said it made your throat tighten even more.

You glanced at him sideways. His eyes were still on the road.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just… someone.” He didn’t say anything. Just gave a small nod. But after another beat, you added, “Old contact. Worked a few things together. He checks in.” You could feel the lie in your mouth, but it didn’t taste like one. Bucky let out a small breath, half-laugh. “What’s his name?”

You stared ahead.

“….Luca”

A pause. Just long enough for you to hate yourself a little. “Well,” Bucky said finally, “tell Luca that he picked a hell of a day to text you.” 

Your lips twitched. “Yeah. He has terrible timing.” Neither of you said anything else for the rest of the drive. You pulled out your phone after a few more minutes, typing out a quick message.

herghosts: death imminent. can’t take the awkwardness. avenge me.

You hit send, locking your phone again and turning to look out the window. Beside you, Bucky turned on his blinker. Said nothing. His phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. He didn’t check it. 

The rest of the drive passed in silence, save for the occasional blinker or low hum of a turn. You pulled up to the Tower just before 5:30, headlights catching on the polished glass and steel, city lights reflected in a hundred gleaming windows.

He parked in the underground garage and killed the engine. You didn’t move right away. Neither did he.

“This way,” he said eventually, voice rough with sleep or nerves. Maybe both. He grabbed your duffel before you could stop him and headed toward the elevator. You followed, arms crossed over your chest, jaw locked tight.

The ride up was quiet. Too quiet. The kind where you can hear every flicker of your own heartbeat. When the elevator dinged, he stepped out, motioning to the left.

“Top floor’s mostly us. You’ll have space. No one’s gonna bother you,” he said, leading you down the hallway, not quite looking at you. “This one’s yours.” He stopped in front of a door and keyed in the code.

The lock clicked.

He opened it and stepped aside so that you could go in. You paused at the threshold. Something about it, whether it was the soft overhead lighting, the fresh sheets, or the still, almost sterile air, felt foreign. Like someone else’s life.

“Everything you need should be in there. Closet’s stocked, too. I didn’t—” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I kept it simple.”

 You took the bag from his hand without looking at him. “Thanks.” Your tone was short. Clipped. The kind that made people take a step back. But Bucky didn’t move. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly. You stopped in the doorway, your back to him, Your grip tightening on the strap of your bag. “I’m tired.”

A pause.

“Right,” he said, stepping back. You walked inside, didn’t look at him as you reached out, pushing the door closed between them. Hard. The latch caught with a sharp, final click.

Inside the room, you dropped your bag on the bed and let out a slow, tight breath, chest heaving just once. The silence felt heavier here, like the walls knew the weight you were carrying. You sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor.

Your phone buzzed. You pulled it out without thinking.

noattachments: ouch.  sounds like a blast.still alive? if it gets too heavy, you can always tell me. even if i don’t know the details. i won’t ask. i’ll just listen. and stay if you need me.

You stared at the screen, pulse hammering, typing out a response.

herghosts: yeah. just got in. already hate it.

The reply came seconds later.

noattachments: want to disappear yet?

You smiled—small and bitter.

herghosts: always. but it’s fine. i’m fine. it’s just… him. it’s stupid. never ending tension. this will probably be over quickly.

Typing dots appeared. Paused. Then:

noattachments: say the word and we run. i’ll book two tickets to anywhere.

Your throat burned. You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Hiding out in Bucharest, two assassins on the run, you’d found comfort in the silence that stretched in between the jobs. But when you started to feel more than that; something that you couldn’t name, something too dangerous to acknowledge… you left.

Without a word.

You thought that you’d escaped him, that walking away meant leaving the pain behind…the unspoken words, the love that never had a chance. But years later, fate has a cruel way of circling back, you’re pulled back into his world when he calls, asking you to work alongside him again. You drop everything, desperate for something…anything, that might erase the weight of the past. But it’s tense, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s painful, working alongside the man that you never got to claim. The man who still haunts you, even when he’s out of reach.

Despite yourself, you’d thought that you’d moved on. He certainly has.

In an attempt to stave off the loneliness that you feel late at night in the Tower, you download an anonymous dating app… and an anonymous stranger, your anonymous Romeo; comes into your life. He’s everything that you thought you were missing. Someone who listens when no one else does. Who makes you feel seen in a way that you haven’t felt in years. And for the first time, you dare to hope.

Until the day that the two of you decide to meet. No more anonymous messages, no more hiding behind a screen, just two people, reaching out for something real.

The truth crashes over you in an instant, but it’s too late. The past is never really gone, and some feelings can’t be outrun.