A Future I Can’t Promise
The war had a way of making every night feel borrowed.
That evening, Elara couldn’t sleep. She sat curled up in the corner of her small apartment, a candle flickering beside her, casting long shadows over the yellowed notebook in her lap. She was writing again about him. Quiet sketches of his profile, thoughts she couldn’t say aloud. Every word she etched was a memory made permanent. Because time, she knew, was never kind enough to give second chances.
Three soft knocks at the door.
Her heart skipped, though she’d grown used to him showing up unannounced—always at night, when his thoughts were loudest.
Steve stood there, rain on his coat, shoulders tense beneath the weight of his uniform and the world. He offered her a small smile, the kind that barely touched his eyes.
“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he admitted.
Elara opened the door wider, no words needed. He stepped inside, shaking the water from his hair, and they both moved through the apartment like second nature now. Tea was poured. A blanket was shared. They sat together on the floor, backs against the couch, as the wind whispered outside.
They talked about little things first. A child who’d waved at Steve that morning. Peggy’s snide remark about Howard’s latest failed gadget. But eventually, the conversation stilled.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, eyes on the candle’s flame. “About after.”
Elara froze. “After?”
“After the war,” Steve murmured. “I know it’s naive, but sometimes I let myself picture it. A small place. Maybe near a lake. A garden. A real bed. I’d draw again. I’d cook—terribly, probably. And in the mornings, I’d walk down the street and buy fresh bread. With someone beside me.”
He turned to her, not demanding anything. Just hoping.
Her breath caught.
He smiled softly. “I’d want you there.”
Her throat burned. She wanted that. God, she wanted that more than anything. But her silence weighed heavy between them.
“I can’t promise you that future,” she whispered. “Even if I want it.”
Steve didn’t ask why. He didn’t press.
He leaned forward instead, brushing a soft kiss to her cheek. Then her mouth. His hands trembled at first, as if unsure. But when she kissed him back—truly kissed him, his restraint shattered.
His mouth pressed against hers hungrily, reverently. Their bodies met with a desperation that had been building for weeks, months. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, sliding beneath it, feeling warm skin and muscle tense beneath her touch.
“Elara,” he whispered into her skin, like a prayer. “I’ve never… never felt like this.”
Tears slipped from her eyes silently. She kissed his temple, his throat, his shoulder.
“I know,” she whispered back. “Me too.”
Clothes were shed slowly, not rushed. His eyes drank her in like she was the last beautiful thing in the world. His fingers traced the curve of her waist, the line of her collarbone, the softness of her stomach.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered against her skin.
When he finally entered her, they both gasped. Her hands clutching his shoulders, his forehead pressed to hers. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t tentative. He moved with intention, slow and deep, drawing out every inch of feeling, of connection, of heat and love and want.
Their hips moved together in perfect rhythm, soft moans and whispered names tangled between kisses. Steve worshiped her with every touch, every roll of his body against hers.
“God,” he groaned, voice breaking. “You feel like home.”
Her nails scraped lightly down his back. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast, the line of her jaw. His lips lingered over her heart like he could memorize its beat.
The candle flickered. The world slowed.
They chased their high together. Fingers entwined, gasps swallowed into each other’s mouths, the sensation building like a tide. When they both fell apart, it was with trembling limbs and shaky breaths, clinging to one another like the end of the world could wait just a little longer.
After, Steve cradled her against his chest. She pressed her cheek to his skin, eyes fluttering closed.
“I love you,” she whispered, as if the night could keep the secret.
He didn’t speak, just kissed the top of her head, holding her tighter.
Minutes and hours passed. Elara drifted off beside him, exhausted. The candle had long burned out. Moonlight spilled across the floor, casting a soft glow over the apartment.
Steve stirred gently. He was about to get up and cover them with the blanket when he noticed the open notebook on the table.
Curious, he leaned over.
The page was covered in ink—her handwriting, elegant and sharp. His name appeared several times. His image, sketched lightly in pencil. Notes about the war. About his art. A line, He’s more than what history remembers.
Steve froze.
There were dozens of pages like it. Her thoughts, reflections, feelings.
About him.
He didn’t read much. Just enough to feel the weight of it. The care, the heartbreak, the impossible truth threaded between each word.
He looked back at her.
Peaceful. Trusting. Vulnerable.
He closed the notebook gently and sat back down beside her. He didn’t know what to think, not yet. But he knew what he felt. The warmth of her love written between the lines.
He pulled her closer.
And waited for morning.