Konstantin lifts a hand, calm but firm. “I didn’t ask for the seasonal menu. I asked for tacos.”
There’s a pause.
Alongone.
The chef’s eyes flick to me. Then back to Konstantin. God, he must hate me. I smile politely, like a woman who definitely didn’t derail a Michelin menu because she’s craving corn tortillas and prenatal comfort.
“No,” I say quickly, waving a hand. “I mean, I would like tacos… outside. As in, not here. Somewhere with bad lighting and sticky floors. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like twelve-dollar rosemary smoke.”
Konstantin turns to me, a brow raised.
I shrug. “It’s been days. Weeks. I want fresh air. Loud strangers. Grease. A drive. A bench with questionable gum stuck underneath. You know—freedom.”
Alya perks up. “Papa, you should drive Bella! She hasn’t gone anywhere since she got here.”
Lev immediately joins in. “Yeah! We’ll be okay.”
Nikolai nods.
Konstantin straightens beside me, his hand warm at the small of my back. His eyes flick to the kids, then to Oleg.
Then, calmly, like it’s not a declaration but a fact already decided, he says, “Okay. Tacos it is.”
“Really?” I ask, blinking up at him. “We’re actually leaving?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Just lifts his chin toward one of the waiting staff and gives a subtle nod. A man immediately begins pulling keys from his pocket like this happens all the time.
I catch it then—the tiniest crease at the corner of Konstantin’s brow.
Not quite worry. Not regret. Something more complicated.
Something like:“I see the purple-yellow marks beneath.”
Something like:“I should’ve protected you then. And I didn’t.”
Like, for one breath, he hates that he wasn’t there. And maybe… maybe he just wants to be here now.
By my side.
He leans closer. “Can you turn without help?”
“I’m injured, not helpless,” I mutter, already regretting how defensive that sounds.
His mouth tilts just slightly. “Didn’t say you were. But I know better than to underestimate uneven stone and stubborn women.”
Before I can fire back, he’s already helping me pivot with gentle precision—like I’m something valuable and breakable but never once making me feel like I am.
“Okay,” he says, turning to the kids. “Eat your dinner. No running. No fighting. No turning utensils into medieval weapons.”
Alya grins. “What about forks?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Anything sharper than a breadstick is off-limits.”
Lev snorts into his plate. Nikolai just nods like he’s heard this speech before.
“Bye, kids,” I sing-song, waving one crutch in the air like a baton. “Don’t burn the place down. Or do, if the risotto’s dry.”
Lev gives me a thumbs-up, as if arson is a valid dinner option. Alya’s already back to arguing with her raccoon wizard. Nikolai doesn’t even look up.
