The sky that day was the colour of old bruises—faint purples fading into grey. Lina stood at the edge of the bluff above the sea, the hem of her dress twisting around her legs in the wind. She held another page in her hand, creased and finger-smudged.
"He said she couldn't hurt him. That she wasn't capable of it. But she knew better. Everyone has a limit, and he'd found hers."
She didn't remember writing it. But the voice was hers. That clipped, bitter rhythm. The kind of tone that came after nights of silence and years of swallowing words.
Milo found her there. He didn't say anything at first—just came to stand beside her, hands in his coat pockets. The wind tugged at his collar.
"You ever think the sea's trying to say something?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I think it's saying the same thing over and over. We're just not listening."
She handed him the page.
He read it and handed it back. "Another one?"
Lina nodded.
"You're bleeding memory like an old house leaks water."
She laughed dryly. "Thanks for the poetry."
They stood in silence again. Then Milo said, "I did some reading."
She turned. "About me?"
"No. About your fiancé."
A beat passed. "And?"
"He had a sealed record in the States. A few things that didn't make it into the news reports."
Lina felt her spine stiffen. "You went digging."
He didn't flinch. "So did you."
"I had a right."
"So do I. You're in my house, Lina. And I don't make a habit of sleeping next to unsolved questions."
The air between them grew sharp.
"I didn't plan for this," she said.
"I don't think you planned anything. But that doesn't mean the past isn't hunting you."
She crossed her arms. "What did you find?"
"He had a restraining order filed against him. In Boston. 2018. Dropped before the court, but it's there."
Her mouth was suddenly dry. "He told me it was a crazy ex."
Milo's eyes didn't move. "Was it?"
"I never asked."
He studied her for a long time. Then: "You always trust that easily?"
"No," she said. "I just loved him enough to pretend I did."
The truth sat between them, cold and solid.
"You're afraid it was you," he said finally.
"I'm afraid I'm the only one who doesn't know the truth."
She turned away. But he caught her wrist—not hard, just enough.
"Then let's find it," he said. "Together."
She searched his face. Noticed, for the first time, the way the wind lifted the edges of his hair, the way his eyes didn't flinch from hers.
"You sure you want to know?" she asked.
Milo's voice was low, steady. "I already do."
And with that, the last excuse between them shattered.
She kissed him. Not gently. It wasn't romance. It was recognition.
And maybe the beginning of the war.