Ferenc and Béla had fallen asleep—Ferenc on the floor, wrapped in a crumpled blanket like a dog that had found its spot; Béla on the edge of the bed, flat on his back, one arm under his head while the other dangled off the mattress, his fingers nearly touching the floorboards. His snoring was deep and rhythmic, like a machine that couldn't shut down.
Csaba was not sleeping.
Neither was I.
The room was dark—the light had been switched off long ago, and only the moonlight filtered through the window, striping the floorboards in silver. The dust we had kicked up earlier that evening was slowly settling now, invisible, but I could feel it in my throat, in my nose, on my skin.
Csaba sat in the armchair. In the exact same posture—legs spread, hands resting on his knees. But he wasn't a commander right now. In the dark, in the silence, beside the two sleeping bodies, he had become something else. Something the daylight couldn't tolerate.
“Come here,” he said.
Quietly. Not as an order. It was a request. The distinction was subtle, but I felt it in my bones.
I got out of bed. I was naked, and I didn’t look for my clothes. The floor was cold beneath the soles of my feet, the wooden boards creaking under my weight. Every step sounded loud in the silence.
I knelt in front of Csaba. His hand came up—not to strike, not to direct—and touched my face. His palm was warm. His thumb rested just below my cheekbone while his other fingers cupped my temple. He held my head as if holding something fragile.
“Did it hurt?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But not the way you think.”
“How do I think?”
“You think I was hurt. I wasn't. I gave. It's different.”
Csaba’s hand froze. His eyes were dark in the moonlight—I couldn't make out his pupils, only the gleam, that deep, metallic glint that was always there, even in the blackest dark.
“Do you know why I didn't touch you?” he asked.
“Because you’re the commander.”
“No.” His voice sounded different now. Not deeper, not harder—just closer. As if the words came from deep in his throat rather than his mouth. “Because if I touched you, I wouldn't have been able to stop. If I touch you, there are no rules. No boundaries. No control. Just you and me, and that isn't command. That's...”
He didn't finish.
The word hung in the air, and I understood what he left unsaid. That is danger. That is collapse. That is the moment when a commander is no longer a commander, just a man who wants someone, and that wanting is stronger than any order, any discipline, any wall he had ever built.
“And now?” I asked.
“Now they’re asleep,” he said. “And I can't take it anymore.”
His hand slid down my face. To my neck. My shoulder. My chest. His palm pressed flat against my skin, and I felt my heart beating beneath it—fast, hard, fluttering like a bird trying to break out of its cage.
“Up,” he said.
I stood up. He stood up too. Now we were standing face-to-face in the moonlight, beside the two sleeping bodies, and his height, his breadth, his darkness wiped everything else away. Ferenc and Béla were no longer there. The room was no longer there. Just him.
Csaba leaned down. His face close to mine—I could feel his breath, menthol and tobacco, the two scents that always marked him. His lips touched mine.
It wasn't a kiss. Not at first. His lips touched mine and stayed there. Held in place—the contact, the pressure, the heat—waiting. Waiting for me to make the first move.
And I moved.
My lips parted, my tongue found his, and then—then came the kiss. Not gentle. Not careful. His hand slammed against my back, his fingers digging into my skin, and his mouth was on mine like a starving man finally getting to eat. His tongue was deep, demanding, and his body pressed hard against mine. I could feel how hard he was—not just there, but everywhere: his chest, his stomach, his thighs, his whole body steel and flesh and desire that he had held back for hours, now breaking free.
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