“You’re my storm,” he had whispered once, face buried in her neck after a long night, his gentle hands tracing her scars like maps to buried treasure. And she had loved him for it, fiercely, in ways she had never allowed herself before. Very much. Enough to dream, in rare, unguarded moments, of a life beyond the Front’s grey construct, a small dacha somewhere, with proper mornings and no radios crackling orders.”
Book:The Crack