If you can't attack the man directly, you attack the foundation he stands on.
And the foundation—the only thing I rely on—stands by the door in the dark.
I swallow the rest of the vodka. It goes down too easily.
I tell myself it isn't attachment. That's a word for poets and victims. It's a word Boris would love to label me with. Something to exploit.
It is structure. It is tactical sense. Maksim is consistent. He is where he's supposed to be. He doesn't leak intel. He doesn't posture for applause.
The fact that my lungs loosen when I hear him breathe is irrelevant. The fact that I slept without nightmares because he was on the other side of my door is coincidence.
I set the glass down. It hits the table harder than I intended.
"Maksim."
He doesn't answer. He shifts. A realignment of attention.
"Come here."
His steps are silent on the parquet. He crosses the room, and suddenly he is close enough that I can make out his silhouette against the window. The city light draws a hard line along his shoulder. I can hear the slow rhythm of his breathing.
"The Estate," I say. My tongue feels thick. "It's full of cameras. My father sweeps regularly. But Boris has technicians—men who know where to place things."
Maksim stays still. Listening.
"If he wanted to plant a device on one of us," I continue, "he could have."
No question. Just a statement to keep my mind occupied.
Maksim waits.
"Take off your jacket."
There is a beat where nothing happens. Not refusal. Processing. He takes the instruction and slots it into the hierarchy of commands.
Then his hands move. Buttons click. Fabric shifts. The jacket comes off. He folds it and places it on the chair without looking. He knows where the furniture is.
He removes the holster next. Unfastens the straps. Places the SIG Sauer on the pile. Then the backup piece from his waistband.
When he's done, he stands in front of me in his undershirt, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes forward.
I stare at him.
The shirt is thin, black cotton, meant to disappear under armor. It doesn't disappear now. It clings. It outlines the slope of his traps, the hard transition from chest to stomach, the way his waist narrows. He looks carved rather than built.
I should stop.
If there's a bug, it's in the jacket or the rig. There's no practical reason to push this further.
My mouth opens anyway.
"The shirt."
This time the pause lasts long enough to have a texture. The air between us pulls tight.
Then his hands go to the hem. He lifts it over his head in one fluid motion.
The city light catches his bare skin. It isn't bright enough to show everything, but it shows enough. Muscle laid beneath skin like cable. A body built for utility, not aesthetics.
