Page 110 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“You could still do it. After.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll do something else entirely. Teach, maybe. Mathematics at some quiet school where no one knows about codes or wars or any of it.” He was quiet for a moment. “Or perhaps I'll just find a small flat somewhere and spend my days reading and my nights with you, and that will be enough.”

The casualness of it caught me off guard. Nights with you, like it was obvious. Like our future together was assumed rather than hoped for.

“You'd want that?” My voice came out rougher than intended. “A flat. Together.”

“I'd want whatever you'd give me. But yes. A flat would be nice. Somewhere with good light for reading and thick walls so the neighbours don't hear us arguing about whose turn it is to make tea.”

“You think we'd argue about tea?”

“I think we'd argue about everything and enjoy every minute of it.” He looked at me, and there was no uncertainty in his eyes now. “I've never had someone to argue with before. Not really. Never had someone who'd stay long enough to learn my habits and be annoyed by them. The thought of annoying you for years sounds rather wonderful.”

“You're already annoying.”

“See? We're off to an excellent start.”

I laughed despite myself, and he grinned, and the morning felt suddenly full of possibility instead of just borrowed time.

“Come on,” I said, standing and pulling him up with me. “Let's walk. I'm going to freeze solid if I sit still any longer.”

We walked the perimeter of the lake, hands not quite touching but close enough that the backs of our fingers brushed with every step. Art pointed out bird tracks in the snow and speculated about which species they belonged to. I pretended to listen while actually watching the way the winter light caught his hair, turning the brown almost auburn where the sun hit it.

“You're not listening,” he accused.

“I'm listening with my eyes.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Sure it does. I'm looking at you instead of hearing you. Same amount of attention, different direction.”

He stopped walking. Turned to face me. “Thomas Hale. Are you flirting with me?”

“Badly, apparently.”

“No, I think you're doing rather well.” His cheeks had gone pink, and not just from the cold. “I'm simply not used to being on the receiving end.”

“Get used to it.”

We stood there in the snow, grinning at each other like idiots, and I thought: this is it. This is what people mean when they talk about happiness. Not the absence of pain or fear or uncertainty, but moments like this. Standing in the cold with someone who makes the cold feel warm.

“I got you something,” Art said suddenly. “For Christmas. I meant to give it to you yesterday, but there were too many people about.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package. Plain brown paper, neatly folded, tied with a bit of string.

“Art. You didn't have to.”

“I wanted to.” He held it out, and his hands were trembling slightly. “It's not much. Just something I saw and thought of you.”

I took the package, unwrapped it carefully. Inside: a notebook, leather-bound and well-made, and a pencil of good quality. I opened the notebook to the first page, where Art's precise handwriting spelled out:

For the stories you'll write when you're done fighting.

Something cracked in my chest. “Art. I don't write. Never have.”

“You could. You should.” He was watching me with those too-perceptive eyes. “You have stories worth telling. Things worth remembering. And when this is over, when you're figuring out who you are without the war, maybe writing will help.”

“What if I don't know how to be anyone without the war?”