I look from Boris to Dima, trying to process why they’ve apparently started cat-rescue operations.
Dima just stares at me, which I’m ninety percent sure is his default setting.
Boris, on the other hand, keeps talking like this is a normal Saturday morning conversation. “Also, I punched yourex.”
Yups, of course he knows it’s my ex.
“Like you asked me to,” he deadpans.
My mouth opens, then shuts. Right. Ididsay that. And now I feel the heat crawl up my neck because, apparently, I’m the kind of person who asks near-strangers to punch my ex.
“Plus, he was being a fucking dick, standing there running his mouth about how you cheat on him.”
I blink at him. “He said… what?”
My brain is still catching up when he adds, almost as an afterthought, “He thinks I’m your boyfriend, and he called you a bitch.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I mean, if that’s really what Evan’s been telling people, then yeah, he deserved the punch. Maybe even a few more for good measure.
Boris tips his head, likeobviously.
Dima speaks for the first time, his voice low and unhurried. “You eaten yet?”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Which… is true. I didn’t have dinner last night; just kind of crashed face-first after everything. Trying to get into Dave’s office, almost getting caught by Caleb. Then grocery shopping with Dima and capping the night off with Evan. By the time I made it back here, I was running on fumes. And breakfast? Nonexistent. Which would be fine if it weren’tnoonnow.
Boris’s eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, like he’s measuring how long I could stay upright if left unsupervised.
In the kitchen, I hover for a moment before opening the fridge.
“Do you… want me to make something for you too?” I ask because it feels rude not to.
Boris leans against the counter, looking far too at home. “Sure.”
I tilt my head toward Dima. He’s just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me like a man who’s already decided how this is going to go. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
“Right,” I mutter. “Two, then.”
Boris smirks like this was his plan all along.
Gordo’s pawing at a cabinet now, claws clicking against the wood like a timer counting down.
“I’ll get you something too,” I tell him.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen smells like home. Or at least… likesomeone’shome.
I slide a plate in front of Boris, then one in front of Dima. Scrambled eggs with cream, flecks of rosemary from my balcony pots, and toast brushed with garlic and olive oil. Simple. But good.
Boris stabs a forkful, chews once, and freezes mid-bite like he’s not sure what just happened in his mouth. Dima’s expression barely changes, but I see it… the tiniest lift of one eyebrow. That’s basically a five-star Yelp review in his language.
I pretend to check the towel draped over my shoulder, but inside? I’m ridiculously pleased with myself.
On the floor, Gordo is annihilating his own plate—shredded chicken mixed with broth. His paws knead the tile like it’s the softest blanket he’s ever seen, and every few bites he pauses to meow up at me, all praise and demands in one.
I glance around the kitchen. My herbs line the windowsill now, catching a patch of sunlight. Mint, basil, rosemary… the green bright against the steel and marble. It’s warmer. Softer. Almost like… home. The thought catches me off guard.This isn’t my home. I’m not supposed to want it to be.And then Anton’s face pushes into my head, uninvited, unwanted. Where is he now? Does he even care that I’m in here cooking for his men?
