“Oh, no!” The tower sways precariously as Elijah giggles. His small hands steady it, and I watch Leonid's fingers twitch like he wants to help but is forcing himself to let Elijah handle it.
"Tell me more Russia stories," Elijah demands, successfully extracting his block. "Did you have a pet bear?"
"No bears," Leonid says. "But I did have a very fierce hamster named Boris."
The mental image of little Leonid with a hamster is almost too much. I press my lips together, but he catches my expression anyway.
"Boris was very intimidating," he insists with mock gravity. "All the other hamsters feared him.” His voice softens, taking on a different tone. "But he was lonely, and angry."
Something in the way Leonid says it makes my chest tight. I can picture it so clearly – a little boy in a huge mansion, with nothing but a hamster for company. The same loneliness that sometimes creeps into Leonid's eyes when he thinks no one's watching.
Elijah's bottom lip trembles slightly, his whole face crumpling the way only a 4-year-old's can when confronted with sadness. "That's not good," he whispers, abandoning his careful Jenga stance to scoot closer to Leonid.
Leonid reaches out, brushing back the dark curls that have fallen across Elijah's forehead. His fingers linger for a moment, and something about the gentleness in that gesture – this dangerous man touching our son with such care – makes heat pool in my stomach. It doesn't help that he looks unfairly attractive playing father, his usual sharp edges softened by the afternoon light.
"No, it wasn't good," Leonid agrees, his thumb brushing one last curl into place. "But then something magical happened. Boris realized he didn't have to be lonely anymore."
"Why?" Elijah asks, his caramel brown eyes –his eyes- wide with wonder as he stares up at Leonid. The sight of them together like this, mirror images in everything but eye color, makes my heart do complicated gymnastics in my chest.
"Boris actually had a very interesting love story," Leonid continues, eyes twinkling like he is about to turn a rock to gold. I shift in my chair, trying to find a position that doesn't make myribs scream. Three days isn't long enough to forget what bullets feel like, even if they missed their mark.
It’s a good thing this dangerously gorgeous man is my son’s father, because watching the two of them play Jenga like it’s an Olympic sport is doing weird things to my heart. And my brain. And fine, my ovaries.
The tower wobbles again as Elijah tackles another block, his tongue still poking out in concentration.
"If you stare any harder, the blocks might catch fire," Leonid says, and I have to bite back a smile at how he's leaning forward, completely invested in a children's game.
"I'm using my super powers," Elijah informs him seriously. "Like in that movie where the guy moves stuff with his mind."
"Telekinesis," Leonid supplies, then adds with perfect deadpan, "Though I should warn you, in Russia, we consider that cheating."
"Everything's cheating in Russia," Elijah says, mimicking Leonid's accent with surprising accuracy. "In Russia, breathing is cheating."
I almost choke on my water. Leonid's eyes meet mine, dancing with suppressed laughter.
"Who taught you to be so cheeky,malysh?"
"Mommy says I came this way. Factory settings."
This time Leonid does laugh, the sound rich and unexpected. My stomach does a little flip that I firmly ignore.
I shift in the chair, the plush cushions of this absurdly expensive armchair doing nothing to make me less squirmy. The chair, like everything in this ridiculous penthouse, screams Leonid Kuznetsov: sleek, bold, and entirely too much for me. Beyond the massive windows, the skyline stretches into jagged peaks, the sun sinking low and casting the snow-covered Alps in strokes of gold and pink. The view looks like it belongs on apostcard—or in the kind of retreat you’d use to disappear after staging a whole damn funeral for a spy’s benefit.
We’re still here, in the Alpine Aiguille Retreat. Leonid made sure to pull out all the stops, enough theatrics to convince anyone watching that someone—anyone—had died. The bloodstains, the black body bag being loaded into the chopper. It was a perfect performance. And for now, it’s working. No one has come knocking. Yet.
“You’re up,” Elijah says, watching Leonid like he’s the coolest person alive. There’s no “Papa” yet, no grand declarations—just this small boy who thinks Leonid is good at Jenga, and Leonid acting like this is the most important mission of his life.
We agreed to take this slow. No sudden revelations, no big speeches. Just time—time for Leonid to figure out how to be in Elijah’s life and for me to figure out what this new reality means.
Elijah grins, clearly oblivious to the silent conversation happening above his head. “You have to be really careful, or it’ll all fall. And if it falls, you lose.”
Leonid arches a brow at him, then reaches for the tower with deliberate precision. His hand hovers for a moment before he pulls a block free with a smooth, calculated movement. The tower wobbles, but it doesn’t fall.
“Like that?” he asks.
Elijah claps his hands together, his face lighting up. “Yeah! Like that! You’re really good at this.”
“Practice,” Leonid says, setting the block aside. “And patience.”
