"Not all of it's mine."
Jesus Christ. That's not reassuring. That's the opposite of reassuring.
He moves past me toward the kitchen, and I follow because what else am I supposed to do? Call 911?
"Don't just stand there," he says, pulling his ruined shirt off completely.
More tattoos reveal themselves. A cathedral spans his entire back, with onion domes and crosses in intricate detail. And scars—so many scars. White lines and puckered marks that tell stories I don't want to hear, but can't stop staring at.
He turns on the sink and starts washing his hands. Blood-tinged water swirls down the drain, and I'm frozen between terror and a darker pull—an entirely inappropriate awareness of how his shoulder muscles move when he reaches for papertowels, how water droplets run down his chest following the lines of his abs.
"I need a shirt," he says without looking at me.
"I—what?"
"A shirt. Unless you want me to explain this—” He stops to gesture at the wall of blood, tattoos that occupy his abdomen. “To whoever walks through that door next."
Right. Think, Lila.Lost and found box.
Hands trembling, I dig through the cardboard box in the corner. Reading glasses. A child's toy. A scarf that smells like old-lady perfume. Finally, at the bottom, rests a black T-shirt. Size large. It'll be tight, but it's better than nothing.
When I turn back, he's using paper towels to clean a wound on his ribs. The methodical way he does it—like it’s routine—makes my stomach twist.
"Here." I hold out the shirt, trying not to stare and failing miserably.
He takes it, and our fingers brush. His hand is still damp, warm despite everything, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm.
"You're shaking," he observes.
"You just—there's blood—what happened?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"You're in my kitchen, covered in blood. I think it concerns me a little."
He pulls the shirt on instead of answering. It is too tight, clinging to everything I shouldn't be noticing right now. This is insane. There's blood in my sink, a gun in his waistband, and I'm thinking about how good he looks in a too-small T-shirt.
The bell above the front door chimes.
We both freeze.
"Stay here," he says, but I'm already moving because this is my diner, my responsibility. He grabs my wrist, grip firm but not painful. "I said,stay."
"It's my job?—"
"Your job is to not get killed,” he interrupts.
Three voices drift in from the dining room, speaking Russian.
"Girl!" one of them calls. "You are here, yes? We need to talk."
Ivan grips his gun and shakes his head at me in a wordless message: don't respond.
"We know you are here. We saw lights. Come out, or we’ll come find you."
I look at Ivan. He's completely still, coiled like a spring, ready to explode into violence. This is what he is, I realize. Not the quiet customer who leaves hundred-dollar tips. This is the real him—lethal and ready to kill.
"I'm coming," I call out, because what else can I do? Hide in the kitchen until they come looking?
