He cuts a single perfect slice and places it in front of me, then looks up with a smile on his face.
“Your mom says it’s your favorite,” he says, voice softer now. “And I really wanted to make it for you.”
I offer him a small smile, the real kind, the kind only he ever sees.
“It smells amazing,” I say, and I mean it.
His whole face brightens.
I pick up the fork and take a bite.
The taste is familiar—layers of honey, cream, the light crumble of sponge, but it’s different too. For some reason, this one tastes better than any other medovik I have eaten. Because he made it for me, and for the first time in years, that matters more than ever.
I take another bite as I look up at him. He watches me with wide eyes, waiting.
I set the fork down, giving him a pleased smile. “It’s delicious.”
His eyes light up instantly, that radiant joy spreading across his whole face.
“I love it,” I say, voice low, honest. “Thank you, krasivy.”
He blushes a little and bites his lips, trying to stop himself from laughing widely. Before he can respond, I reach for his hand again, this time tugging him toward me.
He comes without hesitation, slipping into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arms loop around my shoulders.
“It’s my first time trying Medovik,” he says, eyes bright as he looks up at me. “Now I get why it’s your favorite, it tastes amazing.”
I keep my arms wrapped around his waist, grounding myself in the weight and warmth of him. The way he feels in my lap, the way he talks to me so easily now, it settles something in me I never knew needed settling.
“Better than chocolate cake?” I ask, raising a brow, already knowing the answer.
He pauses, brows furrowing as if the question deserves serious contemplation. Then he shakes his head and drags a hand lazily down my chest, fingers light and absent-minded.
“Nothing is better than chocolate cake.”
I smile. If Lucas says nothing tops chocolate cake, then that’s final. No argument. He’s always been sweetly stubborn about the things he loves.
“Maksim came with your mom earlier,” he says, the smile returning to his lips. “He said he was helping, which basically meant licking the spoon and eating half the filling before your mom could stop him.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That sounds like Maksim.”
He giggles, his face soft with fondness. “Your mom kept scolding him in Thai. He pretended not to hear her and just kept recording everything with his phone.”
I roll my eyes, amused but not surprised. “Was he at least nice to you?”
He nods quickly, a bit of color blooming in his cheeks again.
“He’s… actually really sweet. Just chaotic. Like a golden retriever that doesn’t know how big he is, he kept teasing me tho.”
My smile fades slightly, not because of Lucas, but because I know Maksim, teasing is second nature to him. I thread a hand up into his curls, watching his expression carefully.
“What was he teasing you about?” I ask, my voice calm. But laced with quiet protectiveness.
Because the last thing I want is for anyone—even my own brother—to make Lucas feel small or uncomfortable. Not after how far he’s come. Not when he finally feels safe here.
“Nothing really,” Lucas replies, but there’s a shy smile tugging at his lips now. “He just kept asking if we’re… together now. If I’m your boyfriend.”
He says it like it’s fragile. Like he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t want to fall from. And I see the uncertainty, the nervous hope in his eyes.
