"No. I want to help. Icanhelp." He studies my face with that intense focus I've grown to recognize.
The guest bedroom door opens to reveal a space that steals my breath. High ceilings stretch above charcoal walls, while a king-sized bed dominates the center, dressed in crisp white linens. Floor-to-ceiling windows mirror the living room's grandeur, offering the same commanding view of the city below.
Anton sets my bag on the leather sofa positioned near the windows.
"You should get some rest," he says, turning to face me. The early morning light catches the sharp angles of his jaw, highlighting the exhaustion he's trying to hide. "If you need anything, I can get it."
I lean against my crutches. "Thank you. For everything."
"I'll be a shout away." Anton steps closer, close enough that his familiar scent wraps around me like a promise. "Call me, text me, or just call my name. I'll hear you."
Something in his voice makes my pulse quicken. The way he's looking at me, gray eyes soft with an emotion I can't quite name, sends warmth spiraling through my chest.
He reaches toward me, and my breath catches. Is he going to kiss me again? My lips part slightly in anticipation, remembering how his mouth felt against mine, how he kissed me like I was air.
Instead, his hand cups the back of my head gently, fingers threading through my hair. He leans down and presses his lips to my forehead. The kiss is soft, reverent, lasting long enough to make my heart stutter against my ribs.
"Sleep well, Solnishko," he whispers against my skin. "We'll talk later. I want to know more about you."
"Solnishko, what does that mean again?" I whisper against the warmth of his lips still lingering on my forehead.
"Little sun."
Anton's mouth curves into what appears to be a ghost of a smile, softening the hard lines around his eyes and revealing glimpses of what I imagined he used to be before grief carved away his lightness.
Then he's gone, closing the door with a quiet click that echoes in the sudden silence.
Little sun.
I stand frozen for a moment, fingertips pressed to my forehead where his lips had been. The gesture felt more intimate than our first passionate kiss. More personal. Like something he might have done with—
I shake the thought away, forcing myself to move toward the bed. The room features subtle masculine touches: dark-wood furniture, steel accents, and artwork in subdued tones. But underneath it all is that familiar scent. Clean and warm, with hints of bergamot and cedar. Anton's cologne, woven into the very air.
I lower myself onto the mattress, which gives perfectly under my weight. My phone finds its place on the nightstand as I sink back against pillows that smell faintly of him.
Just for a minute, I tell myself, closing my eyes.
My phone screen glows 12:47 PM when consciousness finally pulls me from the deepest sleep I've had in days. The room sits in perfect darkness, heavy curtains blocking every trace of afternoon sun. I don't remember closing those curtains.
Anton must have come in while I slept.
My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead, and I'd commit actual crimes for decent coffee right now. But first, nature calls with increasing urgency.
I fumble for the crutches and navigate toward the bathroom. The door opens to reveal gleaming marble.
I glimpse at a straight razor, cologne, and a watch that I realize belongs to Anton.
This isn't a guest suite. These are Anton's personal things. His bathroom. His bedroom.
After I'm done taking care of nature, curiosity drives me through another door. It reveals a walk-in closet. Rows of neatly tailored suits hang in dark spectrum order: charcoal, black, midnight blue, along with crisp white shirts, ties arranged by subtle pattern variations, and athletic wear folded to perfection.
Every piece screams expensive, all chosen with care and maintained perfectly. Even his casual clothes—dark jeans, Henley shirts, tactical pants—carry that same quality, that same attention to detail that defines everything about Anton Baev.
He gave me his room. His space. His bed.
This man, who guards his privacy like state secrets, handed over his most personal sanctuary to me.
I decide to shower first despite my growling stomach. I apply an extra-large waterproof bandage over my stitches. My stitches, Anton's handiwork. Another skill to add to his mysterious resume.
