I tilt my head toward him. “You mean the one that looks like a haunted spaghetti monster mated with a taxidermized bat?”
He smirks. “Alya says it’s a butterfly.”
“She’s loyal.”
“She also told me you insisted on drawing the antennae last because you needed ‘emotional closure.’”
I groan. “I was under duress.”
“You were high on children’s markers and six juice boxes.”
I laugh. Damn it. I laugh. And it feelsgood, which is annoying.
But then he keeps going. “Honestly, I liked it. Had a sort of… unhinged elegance.”
“Wow. That’s how I describe my entire personality.”
He chuckles, and I feel it like a pull—low in my gut, curling inward. I hate how much I want to lean into him. I hate howgood he smells. How easy it is to forget, for a few stolen seconds, that my body is no longer just mine.
We reach the table. His arm doesn’t drop away immediately, like he’s reluctant to let go. Like part of him still feels the shape of me pressed to his side.
The kids are still lit up. Lev’s practically vibrating with excitement, showing off his new board game. Nikolai’s flipping through a book, half-reading, half-listening. Alya’s curled under a throw blanket now draped across the back of her chair, a board game instruction manual stretched across her lap like it personally offended her.
Konstantin lowers himself beside her, taking the card from her hands.
“You missed this step,” he murmurs, pointing gently to the bottom. “You have to build the trading post before you can collect the magic keys.”
She frowns at it. “But the raccoon wizard is already on the bridge.”
He looks solemn. “Even raccoon wizards need structure.”
I almost snort.
Before he can say anything else, Nikolai leans over and nudges him with his elbow. “I’ll help her. You go sit with Bella.”
Konstantin pauses just long enough to glance between them. Then he reaches out and places a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder. It’s subtle. Barely a squeeze.
“Thank you, son.”
Son.
It shouldn’t make me ache the way it does—but it does.
Because if he loves them like this, what would it mean forours?
Would he hold them like that? Tuck them in? Bring home books and tiny toy swords and tell them bedtime stories in Russian?
Would hewantthis baby?
I’m not ready to ask. But the question is burning a hole in my lungs.
“Would you like to sit?” he asks again, turning back to me.
“My ankle would like tacos,” I deadpan.
Without missing a beat, he pivots toward the nearest chef station. “Tacos.”
The man in a crisp black jacket blinks like he just got hit with a pop quiz. “Ah— Mr. Belov, I’m very sorry, but tacos are not on the dinner rotation tonight. We’ve prepared the seasonal—”
