"How's it going with the foundry reps?" Marc asked casually.

"It's going well," Devrim replied. "The Tex Mechanica chap is a total pillock. But the rest of them are surprisingly receptive. I think this business in the Oort Cloud has them on edge."

Devrim continued ferrying dishes and silverware from the kitchen to the balcony, where he set a small table for two.

"They're lucky to have you. How much longer do you think you'll be in the City?" Marc called out from the kitchen.

Devrim parsed his response carefully. Years of long-distance partnership had taught him that there was always a question behind the question.

"At least another six weeks," he replied. His eyes traveled from the quiet side street below to the Tower, which loomed over the City's residential quarters. "Until they've compiled all the data from the Guardian's combat reports."

"Wow!" Marc exclaimed, emerging from the apartment with a side salad in one hand and linguine arrabbiata in the other. "That's the longest you've been home in dog's years."

"Since just after the Red War," Devrim agreed, quietly working the cork from the bottle of sparkling wine.

"I know better than to get used to it, though," Marc quipped. "You'll be itching to run back to the front soon enough."

"Please don't start," Devrim sighed. Marc pretended not to hear.

"So, I'll just have to enjoy you while I can," Marc said with resolute cheer. He sat down and held out his champagne glass. Devrim poured.

Marc lifted his glass. "To us."

Devrim met his eyes. In them, he saw a well of grief over all the years they had lost. The prime of their lives spent apart. Their youth wasted by missed opportunities.

But he also saw hope for the fleeting time that remained. Faith that their love would endure through their grim winter years. To the end.

"To us," Devrim replied. "Always."