The storm rolled in slowly, distant thunder cracking over the sea like a warning.
Lina stood barefoot in the kitchen, watching the clouds bruise the sky. She could feel it—the weight in the air, the way everything seemed to hold its breath.
Milo entered without speaking, soaked from the shoulders down, hair clinging to his forehead. He dropped his jacket on the back of a chair and moved to the sink, turning on the tap like he needed the sound of water to fill the silence between them.
"I saw her today," Lina said.
He didn't look at her. "Who?"
"His sister. Rosa. She's still here. She saw me in the market and just… froze."
Now he turned. "Did she say anything?"
Lina nodded slowly. "Just one word: 'Murderer.'"
Milo let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh but not quite. "She said that to your face?"
"I didn't stay long enough for her to repeat it."
She turned to face him, arms crossed, voice thin and strained. "You still think I didn't do it?"
"I think you're carrying something too big for one person. That's not the same as guilt."
"It's starting to feel like it."
She crossed the kitchen and poured herself a half-glass of red from the bottle on the counter. Her hands trembled.
"I remembered something else," she said quietly. "The night he died… we were fighting. That's not new. But I remember throwing something. A wine bottle. It hit the wall and shattered. He laughed. Said I was pathetic."
Milo's jaw tightened. "And?"
"I grabbed his wrist. He pushed me. I pushed back. Then—" She broke off, staring into the glass like the wine held answers.
"Then he wasn't laughing anymore."
She looked up at Milo.
"Do you believe in self-defence?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "But the law doesn't always care why a thing happened. Just that it did."
"I think I wanted him to hurt," she whispered. "I don't know if I meant for him to die. But I wanted him to stop."
They stood there, the silence humming between them.
Then Milo said, "You're not the only one with blood on your hands, Lina."
She looked up, startled. "What are you talking about?"
He hesitated. Something shifted in his face like a door cracking open.
"In Aleppo, I once tipped off a fixer to a rebel hiding out in a compound. It was meant to be an exclusive. Photos, interviews. But the next morning, there were bodies in the street. I never picked up a camera again."
Lina didn't respond. She stepped closer until she was standing right in front of him.
"We're a good match, then," she said softly. "Two ghosts pretending to be alive."
Milo raised a hand and brushed a curl behind her ear. "I don't care what you did," he said. "I care what you're doing now."
Their lips touched—tentative at first, then deeper. Not soft. Not sweet. Like confession. Like survival.
Outside, thunder cracked again. But inside, something shifted.
Not forgiveness. Not yet.
But the beginning of a language they hadn't spoken before.