The return

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The heat clung to Lena's skin. She threw open the window, but the night air brought no relief – only the smell of hot asphalt and distant thunderstorms.

Behind her, Markus turned a page. Too loudly. Too demonstratively.

He was back for four days. Four days in which they circled each other like strangers.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"No."

She went into the kitchen anyway and poured herself some water she didn't want. Her fingers were trembling.

"Lena. Come here."

No request. She hated that she left anyway.

Markus had put the magazine down. His eyes followed it. Gray, alert, dangerously attentive.

"Sit down."

"Why?"

"Because we need to talk."

She stopped. "Then talk."

A half-smile. "Sit down anyway."

She sat down in the armchair opposite him, not next to him. The distance felt safer.

He leaned forward. His forearms rested on his knees, the muscles clearly visible beneath his tanned skin. "You're different."

"Three months is a long time."

"Not so long."

"Long enough that you didn't call even once."

“I had—”

"No network. I know." She laughed coldly. "Three months without network."

"I wanted you to miss me."

The words hit like a slap in the face. Lena jumped up. "You asshole."

"It worked."

"Fuck you."

She turned towards the door. He was faster. His hand closed around her wrist – not tightly, but firmly enough to stop her.

"Let me go."

"No."

“Markus—”

"Look at me."

She tore herself away, but then she turned around. Her heart was pounding. They were too close. She could smell his skin—soap and something dark she couldn't name.

"What do you want?" Her voice broke.

"That you stop lying."

"I do not lie."

"You've been lying all the time. Since the very first evening."

"Then go!"

"No."

"Why not? You always go!"

"Because I come back. Every time."

"That's not enough!"

"What would be enough?"

The question hung between them. Lena felt her eyes burning, her breath coming too fast. "I don't know."

Markus raised his hand and touched her face. His fingers were warm, his palm rough. "Don't lie."

"You're hurting me." Her voice was just a whisper.

"I'm not even close enough."

"That's exactly the problem."

Something flickered in his eyes. He stepped closer. His breath brushed her forehead. "Then tell me what you want."

"That you're leaving."

"Do not lie."

"That you stay."

"Better."

"That you won't—" The words stopped.

His other hand rested on the back of her neck, warm, firm, secure. "Say it."

"Leaves."

The tears came, hot and angry. She hit his chest, once, twice. He let her. Then he caught her wrists and gently pushed them down.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't say that."

"I'm sorry I left."

"You always leave."

"I've come back."

"This time. And next time? And the time after that?"

"I don't know it."

Honesty hit harder than any lie. Lena laughed, a stifled sound. "At least you admit it."

"I'm not lying to you. Not here." His hands slid up her arms, his thumbs on the inside of her wrists where her pulse was racing. "I don't know what tomorrow will bring. But I'm here now."

"That's not enough."

"Then take what's enough."

She looked at him. Really at him. The exhaustion around his eyes, the new lines around his mouth. He looked older. Harder. But his hands were gentle.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I know."

"I mean it."

"I know."

“And yet—”

He kissed her before she could finish her sentence. Hard, hungry, as if three months had been too long. Lena froze, then melted against him, her fingers inside his shirt, tearing, angry, desperate.

His hands in her hair, on her waist, everywhere. Too much and not enough.

"I hate you," she murmured against his mouth.

"Show me."

She bit his lower lip. He inhaled sharply, smiling against her mouth. "Harder."

"You're sick."

"You too."

He lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the wall. The picture behind her head rattled.

"You are impossible," she gasped.

"You love it."

"I hate it."

"Liar."

His mouth on her neck, her hands in his hair, pulling, holding on. His teeth at the crook of her neck, not gently.

“Markus—”

"Say it."

"No."

"Say it."

"Never."

He laughed, a dark, vibrating sound against her skin. "Stubborn."

"Learned from you."

He carried her to the sofa and let himself fall down with her. She landed on top of him, her knees to the left and right of his hips, her hair a curtain around both their faces.

“I’m still angry,” she said.

"I know."

"And I will not forgive you."

"I don't expect that."

"Good."

She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. His hands slid under her shirt, warm against her skin. She shivered.

"Cold?"

"No."

"Nervous?"

"Keep your mouth shut."

He laughed, and she felt the vibration in her own chest. As if they were connected. As if they had never been apart.

But they had been separated. For three months.

She pulled away, sat back down. Her hands flat on his chest. His heartbeat beneath her palms, too fast.

"What is it?" His voice was rough.

"I want it to hurt."

"What?"

"You. I want it to hurt when you leave again."

Something shifted in his face. He sat up, her still on his lap. His hands cupped her face.

"Then make me dependent," he whispered. "Make it so I can't leave."

"You're leaving anyway."

"Maybe. But it will hurt."

"Do you promise that?"

"Yes."

She kissed him, slowly, thoroughly, like a promise. Like a threat.

Later they lay on the sofa, entwined, sweaty, exhausted. Outside it was raining. The sound on the windowsill was rhythmic.

"Lena?"

"Mm?"

"I love you."

She said nothing. She just pressed herself closer, her face against his shoulder, her breath against his skin.

"You don't have to say it," he murmured into her hair.

"Good."

"But I know it anyway."

"You're imagining things."

"I don't."

His hand stroked up and down her back, an endless, soothing rhythm.

"If you leave again," she whispered, "don't come back."

"OK."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"Then stay."

"Today?"

"Today."

"Morning?"

"Ask me tomorrow."

He kissed the top of her head. "Deal."

She closed her eyes. The rain intensified. Somewhere in the apartment, a tap was dripping.

But here, now, in his arms, everything felt right.

Even if it was wrong.

Perhaps precisely for that reason.

She woke up in the morning to the smell of coffee. Markus was standing at the window, a cup in his hand, the morning sun on his bare skin.

"Tomorrow," he said, without turning around.

"You're still there."

"I promised."

She stood up, wrapped herself in the blanket, and went to him. She leaned against his back.

"And today?"

"I'm still here today."

"And tomorrow?"

"Ask me tomorrow."

She closed her eyes and breathed it in. "Okay."

His hand found hers, intertwining their fingers.

Outside, the city was awakening. Loud, chaotic, vibrant.

But here, at this moment, everything was still.

Lena knew it wouldn't last. Nothing ever did.

But that was enough for now.

That was enough for now.