John took him to the gardens at sunrise. They bundled up in quilts and drank coffee and sat on the stone walls, and John said, “Next week, eight years ago, you save my life at the National Opera House in Ukraine.”
“June 14. Our anniversary.” Neil said it with reverence.
“Yes. It’s why I pushed so hard for the date.”
Neil leaned his head on John’s shoulder. “How romantic,” he mused. “Although, how do you know it was me?”
“It’s always you,” John answered. He put his arms around Neil. “I don’t want to ask you to go back for me. I.” He cleared his throat and blinked slowly at the horizon. “I wish I hadn’t told you.”
