I think about Lily's steady hands. Her fearless competence. The way she didn't panic when a bleeding Bratva soldier collapsed on her doorstep.
And I think:She'll do.
More than that:She's perfect.
I just have to convince her. Or rather, I have to make it inevitable.
She said one week. That's all the time I need.
Lily
Day three, and he's still here.
I tell myself it's because he can barely walk without wincing. Tell myself I'm just being practical, that sending an injured man out into the street would make me no better than the people who shot him.
But the truth sits heavier than that.
I don't want him to leave.
The realization hits me while I'm kneading dough at four in the morning, my hands moving through the familiar rhythm while my brain spins in circles. Zakhar is upstairs, asleep on my couch. Has been for three days now. And instead of feeling invaded or anxious or any of the normal things a person should feel about a dangerous stranger in their home, I feel settled.
Which is insane.
I punch the dough harder than necessary.
The bakery opens at six. By five-thirty, I have fresh rolls cooling on racks, cinnamon buns glazed and perfect, sourdough loaves that smell like heaven. The same routine I've followed for two years, the same products that aren't quite enough to keep this place afloat.
But today, when I unlock the front door and flip the sign to open, something feels different. I can't put my finger on it. Just a prickle at the back of my neck. Like I'm being watched.
I glance around the street, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.
The morning crawls by. Three customers. An elderly woman who buys a single roll. A businessman who grabs coffee and a muffin without looking at me. A mother with two kids who lingers over the pastry case, before leaving with one cinnamon roll she then breaks in half and gives to her children.
I don't blame them. Times are tight for everyone.
By noon, I'm exhausted. The ADHD makes days like this torture, my brain bouncing between worry about money, worry about Zakhar, worry about what the hell I'm doing with my life. I can't focus on anything long enough to actually solve any of it.
I close the bakery for lunch and head upstairs.
Zakhar is awake. Sitting up on the couch, shirtless despite me washing the one he arrived here in. Yes, it’s bloodstained and has bullet holes in it, but it’s not like I have a stack of men’s clothes readily available. I washed his jeans, pants and socks yesterday, threw him a towel for his modesty but still saw more than an eyeful as I helped him undress.
I’m a nurse,I kept telling myself.I’ve seen thousands of naked men.But that didn’t change the fact that Zakhar was the man in front of me, and there’s nothing normal about this situation.
He's on his phone, typing one-handed, and doesn't look up when I enter.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, setting down the sandwich I brought him.
"Better, thanks."
He sets the phone aside and reaches for the food. I watch him eat, cataloging the small changes. Less pale. Moving more easily. The wounds are healing faster than I would usually expect, but I'm not complaining.
"You should be resting more," I say.
"I've been resting for three days."
"You were shot. That’s serious."
"And you fixed me." His eyes meet mine with that strange intensity that makes my stomach flip. "You're good at what you do."
