She could hear his heartbeat as she lay next to him on the bed. Her head was resting on his chest, and she heard the steady rhythm, the constant thump thump thump. He wasn't holding her, of course. He never held her. Never showed much affection at all.

He looked peaceful as he slept, like a contented man who bore no weight of the day to cloud his eyes. He had dark, troubled eyes.

If she looked deep enough into them (and if he even bothered to make eye contact at all) she could visibly see his struggle. There was good and evil at war in his heart.

Was he a lost soul, forced to do an evil dictator's bidding?

Or was he himself the enemy, merely using his past as an excuse?

He surely enjoyed the genocide, the mindless bloodshed. At least, he used to.

Of one thing she was absolutely sure of – this man, the man she loved, had a heart. The gentle throb that lay inside his chest was proof enough for her.