I know the pain is imminent. Waiting is almost worse.
But the seconds spin out, stretching thin, held tight by anticipation.
A detect a careful shift across the carpet.
I risk a tiny peek. Just enough to see without giving up my defense.
Kirill stands at the window, speaking Russian into his phone. Shadows carve sharp planes into his face. He talks quickly in a low voice, his words clipped. The call ends with his thumb sliding across glass in a final, practiced gesture. The threatening energy that usually radiates off him softens.
Not gone, but changed.
Tuned down. Like he’s closed some inner circuit.
I pull my hand back, hardly daring to breathe. He hasn’t forgotten me, I know, but the dynamic is different.
I can feel the transformation, though I can’t name the shift. My every muscle anticipates his next move. “What?—”
He’s back at full attention. The shadow of vulnerability disappears, leaving behind sharp hyperfocus.
He taps on his phone again before angling the screen toward me.
My heart shrivels. My lips form a “no” that my lungs can’t push out.
The Thorne Identity.
My podcast logo.
The little graphic I obsessed over, the one I bought instead of three weeks’ worth of groceries. My voice, digitized and trapped, sits in his palm. The only real thing I’ve ever created.
“No.” I grab for the phone in a hopeless reflex. “Kirill, don’t. I don’t want you?—”
He’s already slipping an earbud in place and tapping play.
He’s no longer just in my space. Now, he’s in my mind, dissecting, judging, and poking through everything I considered safe.
I never thought he’d search for my videos, my work. I never thought he’d care enough to listen to anything I said.
I lunge forward. “Give me that.”
His eyes remain locked on the screen while he lifts the phone higher, out of my reach. I stare in horror as I hear myself talk about energy and alignment, my voice tinny through his earbud.
“Quiet.” His shoulders shifts to the side. “I’m listening.”
I want to curl up in the corner and hide. Instead, I brace myself for his reaction. A sneer or flash of scorn.
He just stays motionless, his face as still as frost.
When the tension rises to an untenable point, I start to pace. Five steps from the bed to the window and then back again like a caged animal, the circle drawing tighter each time.
Calm has flown right out the door, along with my box breathing. When I work up the courage to search his expression, I only manage to stare.
So far, I spy no sign of amusement or ridicule on his face. He listens intently to every word I ever recorded, dragged out for his private review.
This is so much worse than a broken finger.
I retreat to the bathroom, shutting the door. I can’t drown in the silence anymore.
The stranger in the mirror, with her red cheeks and wide eyes, startles me. I look alive and utterly naked. Not at all reminiscent of the persona I put on for the world. This version of me is real and raw, with every piece of armor peeled back.
