"Come on." I guide her away from the stove. "Sit down. I'll make you something."
"You don't have to?—"
"It’s fine. I want to."
She sits at the counter, watching as I pull out ingredients. I make her a grilled cheese sandwich, simple and quick, and pour her a glass of water. She smiles faintly when I set it down in front of her.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"You're welcome."
She takes a bite, and I can see the tension starting to leave her shoulders. The fear from earlier, from Ilya's visit, is slowly fading.
"Aren’t you hungry?" she asks, glancing up at me.
The question catches me off guard. It's such a normal thing to ask. Such a domestic thing.
"I could eat," I admit.
She pushes the plate toward me. "Here. Share with me."
Is this still a ruse?She looks genuine, for once, and I can’t deny her anyway. Especially not when she looks so sweet and needy, her face tired and tear-streaked still, a woman who needsme. I take half the sandwich, and we eat in silence. The kitchen is still smoky, the ruined pan still sitting in the sink, but none of it matters.
For just a moment, this feels real.
Svetlana sets her half down after a few bites and looks at me. “If Ilya had found me—if he'd walked into that bedroom—what would you have done?"
I can feel the tension in the air thicken. I don’t know what the answer to this question means to her, but I know she’s searching for something from me. "I wouldn't have let him touch you," I tell her, and it’s the truth.
"Even if it meant?—"
“No matter what it meant.” I shift closer to her, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. "I won’t let anything happen to you, Svetlana. Not from Ilya. Not from anyone."
She laughs, and the sound is bitter. Disbelieving. "You expect me to believe that? That you'd sacrifice your position, your safety, your entire life for me?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Her eyes narrow. "Why would you do that? You didn’t do it before." She clicks her tongue. "You're lying.”
I shake my head. "I'm not. And you don’t know me at all if you think that’s the case."
"You are." She gets up, pacing toward the counter, and like I’ve been pulled along by a string, I get up too, drawn to her as always. "You're just like everyone else. You want something from me, and you'll say whatever you need to say to get it."
I step closer to her, and she turns to face me. "That's not true?—"
"Prove it." Her voice is hard. Demanding. "Prove that you're different. Prove that I can trust you."
"How?" I'm so close to her now I can feel the heat of her body, smell the faint scent of shampoo in her hair. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."
"I don't know." She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling. "But you'll have to work harder than this. You'll have to do more than just say the words."
I want to kiss her so badly it's a physical pain. I want to show her exactly how I feel in a way that doesn't require words at all.
But I know that won’t help. It’ll just prove, to her, that what she’s saying is true. That I want something, and I’m willing to do whatever I need to in order to take it.
"Okay," I murmur, trying not to think of how close my mouth is to hers. "I will."
She holds my gaze for another moment, then steps back. The loss of her proximity feels like an ache in my chest.
