We're both breathing hard. His body is covering mine. The training has charged the air between us—sweat and adrenaline and the realization that I'm not fragile anymore.
"You should be scared of me now," I say, rolling us so I'm on top. Straddling him on the training mat, his hands automatically going to my hips.
"Should I?"
"I'm dangerous now." I grind against him, feel him hard beneath me. "Aren't you worried?"
"Terrified," he growls, pulling me down for a kiss.
Sunday evening, we stay in.
After a full day of intense training, we're both exhausted. I make dinner—simple pasta, the kind my mother used to make. He opens wine, watches me move around the kitchen with quiet contentment.
"You're staring," I say, not looking up from the stove.
"I'm memorizing."
"Memorizing what?"
"This. You, cooking in my safe house kitchen. The way you move—even here, it's dance. The way you taste the sauce, adjust the seasoning." He pauses. "The way you've made this place feel like home in less than a week."
We eat on the couch, talking about nothing important. Books we've read. Movies we love. Small things that couples learn about each other when they're not fighting for survival.
"Tell me something no one else knows about you," I say.
He's quiet for a moment. "I wanted to be a pianist. Before the Bratva, before Elena, before everything. My grandmother taught me. I was good."
"Do you still play?"
"Haven't touched a piano in twenty years."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He stops, considers. "Because I didn't deserve beauty anymore. Didn't deserve art or music or anything soft. Only the work. Only the mission."
I set down my wine glass. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It's the truth."
"Then we'll find you a piano. After Lincoln Center. After Anton. You'll play for me."
He meets my eyes and something shifts in his expression—permission, maybe, to believe in a future. "A piano. You're already planning our after."
"Someone has to. You're too busy planning the war."
"Then you plan the peace. I'll make sure we survive to see it."
He sets his wine glass beside mine and pulls me into his lap. I go willingly, straddling him on the couch, my hands finding his shoulders.
"Maksim—"
"Let me have this," he murmurs against my throat. "Let me have you without the countdown, without the mission. Just this. Just us."
His mouth finds mine—slow, deep, exploring rather than claiming. His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm against my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. I arch into the touch, suddenly desperate for skin on skin.
I pull my shirt over my head. No bra—I stopped wearing them around the safe house days ago. His eyes darken, tracking the movement as I toss the fabric aside.
"Beautiful," he says, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they peak. "Every time I see you, I can't believe you're real."
