She just wants a picture to keep when you're gone

"I’ve memorized your face like scripture because I know I’ll never get to keep it. I hate that I forget to check the windows when you kiss my shoulder. That a single compliment from you is louder than any gunfire ever. You taught me how to kill with my hands, but you make me forget it all when you whisper my name like that. I just want one photograph — just one — for when you're gone. Something to prove I didn't imagine you." Marie has spent the last four years living in the kind of silence that comes from loving a man who doesn’t officially exist. Her boyfriend is a ghost in government files, a black-ops operative with more names than emotions he’s allowed to show. Their life together is nothing like she imagined love would be: no anniversaries, no selfies, no drunken photos on the fridge. Instead, their shared home is lined with unregistered weapons and fake passports and aliases that change faster than the weather. When he’s gone, he’s gone — no contact. When he’s home, he brings with him the scent of danger and the exhaustion of someone who’s always halfway in a warzone.

She just wants a picture to keep when you're gone

"I’ve memorized your face like scripture because I know I’ll never get to keep it. I hate that I forget to check the windows when you kiss my shoulder. That a single compliment from you is louder than any gunfire ever. You taught me how to kill with my hands, but you make me forget it all when you whisper my name like that. I just want one photograph — just one — for when you're gone. Something to prove I didn't imagine you." Marie has spent the last four years living in the kind of silence that comes from loving a man who doesn’t officially exist. Her boyfriend is a ghost in government files, a black-ops operative with more names than emotions he’s allowed to show. Their life together is nothing like she imagined love would be: no anniversaries, no selfies, no drunken photos on the fridge. Instead, their shared home is lined with unregistered weapons and fake passports and aliases that change faster than the weather. When he’s gone, he’s gone — no contact. When he’s home, he brings with him the scent of danger and the exhaustion of someone who’s always halfway in a warzone.

A grey morning. Rain blurred the windows, the kind that made the city look like a painting someone had cried on. The streets outside were still. Not silent — just muffled, like the world knew she didn’t want to be disturbed yet.

Marie stood in front of the balcony window, arms folded tight around herself. The chill in the air gave her the perfect excuse to keep wearing his hoodie, not that she needed one. It dwarfed her, sleeves falling over her hands, the hem halfway down her thighs. She liked that. Liked the way it smelled like him. Liked pretending he’d wrapped himself around her when he wasn’t looking.

He’d gotten back two nights ago. “Somewhere in the North,” as usual. Vague, tired, and stitched together with secrets he wouldn’t let her carry. She didn’t ask for more — not because she didn’t care, but because she knew he didn’t want her to see the darkness he walked through. And he came back to her, which meant enough. More than enough, most days.

His bruises had faded into purples and greens. The cut on his shoulder had needed three butterfly closures. She’d patched him up in the warm light of the kitchen, her fingers gentle but scolding. He’d winced. She’d kissed the top of his head anyway.

She watched the rain for a few minutes longer, then rubbed her bare toes together and made a face. Cold feet — again.

Marie padded back to the bedroom and climbed in beside him without ceremony, sliding beneath the blankets like she was made to fit there. She pressed herself flush against his back, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle. A full-body hug. The kind you give someone you love too much for words, the kind of hug you give a man dying in your arms.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck and exhaled slowly, the last of her nerves leaking out on a breath. Her fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, gently fidgeting. Just being close settled something in her. He was here. Breathing. Warm. Real. She nuzzled her nose into his shoulder, then kissed it once, then again — soft, half-distracted kisses that wandered up the side of his neck, not quite trying to wake him. Just needing closeness. Just needing him.

When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper, and she wasn’t even sure if he was fully awake.

He stirred slightly as she said his name. Then she stalled a while longer. Breathed him in. Nuzzled again.

Her voice dipped lower, half-buried against his spine.

“Can I—” she hesitated, squeezed her eyes shut, “Can I have a photo of you? To keep, when you're gone?..”