"Better?" he asked when my tears stopped.
I nodded against his chest, then pulled back to look at him. In the soft light of our fort, with fairy tales spread around us and Bear snoring peacefully, he looked like a prince from one of the stories. My prince, who built me forts and read me stories and called me his little girl like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Read more?" I asked, settling back against his chest.
"Always," he promised, picking up where we'd left off, his voice weaving magic in our blanket cave while the city hummed its nighttime song outside.
The doorbell broke through our fairy tale world, and Dmitry's stomach growled in response, making me giggle against his chest.
"Dinner," he said, carefully extracting himself from the fort. "Don't move."
Like I would leave our perfect blanket cave. I curled into the warm spot he'd left, breathing in his lingering scent while Bear lifted his head hopefully at the mention of food. Through the blanket walls, I could hear Dmitry talking to the delivery guy, the rustle of bags, the domestic sounds of plates and silverware.
He returned with everything balanced on a tray—white takeout boxes, real plates because he insisted we eat off actual dishes, chopsticks and forks, and a small bowl of water for Bear. The logistics of getting it all into the fort made us both laugh, Dmitry eventually sliding the tray in while I pulled from the other side.
"Teamwork," I said proudly, and he kissed my forehead like I'd accomplished something monumental.
We unpacked the boxes together—lo mein, dumplings, orange chicken, spring rolls, more food than two people could possibly eat. But abundance was still new to me, and I loved the weight of too much, the promise that there would be leftovers tomorrow, that we wouldn't run out.
Dmitry pulled me back against his chest, and without discussing it, he started feeding me bites between his own. His chopsticks would capture a piece of orange chicken, and he'd bring it to my lips with the same care he'd shown reading to me. It felt tender—like he wanted to take care of me in every small way.
"Bear needs a dumpling," I announced, watching our dog track every movement of food with laser focus.
"Bear's had plenty of treats today," Dmitry said, but he was already tearing off a small piece.
I took it from his fingers and offered it to Bear, who took it with surprising gentleness before wagging so hard his whole body moved. "He's such a good boy. The best boy. Aren't you, Bear? Yes, you are."
"You're going to spoil him," Dmitry warned, but his voice was warm with affection.
"Good," I said decisively. "He deserves to be spoiled. We all do."
The simple declaration hung in the fort's soft air. We all deserved to be spoiled—Bear, me, even Dmitry with his scars and his careful control. Here in our blanket cave, we could allow ourselves that luxury.
I reached for the fairy tale book again, needing to share my discoveries. "Look at this one," I said, opening to an illustration of an underwater palace. "See how she drew the water? It's not just blue—there's purple and green and even pink in the shadows. And look, tiny fish hidden in the seaweed patterns."
Dmitry leaned in to look closer, his chin resting on my shoulder. "How did you spot those? They're barely visible."
"I've always looked for hidden things in pictures," I admitted, tracing the tiny details with my finger. "In foster homes, when things got bad, I'd stare at book illustrations and find all the secrets. It was like . . . like the artist left them there just for me to find."
His arms tightened around me, but he didn't offer empty sympathy. Instead, he asked, "What other secrets did this artist hide?"
We went through the book page by page, me pointing out hidden faces in tree bark, secret doors in castle walls, tiny animals camouflaged in dress patterns. Dmitry asked questions that made me think deeper—why did the artist choose to hide that particular detail? What did it mean for the story? His engagement was genuine, treating my observations like they mattered, like I wasn't just a traumatized girl being indulged but someone whose perspective was valuable.
"This one's my favorite," I said, showing him an illustration of a girl surrounded by stars. "See how each star has adifferent expression? Happy, sad, surprised, angry. Like they're all different souls watching over her."
"Maybe they are," Dmitry said thoughtfully. "Maybe everyone who ever loved her became a star, and now they keep her safe even when she can't see them."
The poetry of it, from this man who broke bones for a living, made my chest ache with something too big for words.
A yawn escaped before I could stop it, my body heavy with food and safety and the emotional weight of being so thoroughly cared for. The clock on his phone showed 9:47, not really late but my body didn't care about actual time.
"Almost bedtime for little girls," Dmitry said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
"Not tired," I protested, even as another yawn betrayed me.
"Hmm," he said, clearly not buying it. "Well, when you do get tired—which you're definitely not right now—we should probably get you ready for bed."
I wanted to argue, to insist we could stay in our fort forever, but my eyelids were getting heavy. The combination of our big day, the food, the warmth of Dmitry's arms, and the safety of little space had left me drowsy in the best way. Not the exhausted collapse I'd known on the streets, but the gentle tiredness that came from being happy and full and loved.
