“Some.”
I lean closer. “Do you have a favorite?”
His jaw ticks. Like he’s debating whether to answer. Then: “Akhmatova. ‘I taught myself to live simply and wisely.’”
“Is that the title?”
“Part of it.”
“What’s it about?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “Survival. Letting go of things you can’t control. Finding peace in small moments.”
The way he says it—low, rough, like the words cost him something—makes my chest ache.
“Did you find it?” I ask softly. “Peace?”
His eyes meet mine. Deep. Serious. “I’m working on it.”
We sit there, knees touching, the morning light filtering through the windows. I finish my eggs. He finishes his. Neither of us moves.
Then he says, “I also fix things.”
“Fix things?”
“Appliances. Electronics. Broken locks.” He shrugs. “My father taught me. Said a man who can’t use his hands is useless.”
“That’s… surprisingly practical.”
“He wasn’t a complicated man.”
“Was he a good one?”
Anton’s quiet for a beat. “He was loyal. Ruthless. Taught me everything I know about survival.” Pause. “But he never taught me this.”
“This?”
His hand moves to my stomach. Gentle. Deliberate. “How to be soft. How to care about something more than the Bratva. How to want something that doesn’t involve blood.”
My breath catches.
“You’re doing okay so far,” I whisper.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” I cover his hand with mine. “You made me eggs. That’s pretty soft.”
His mouth curves. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
We sit like that—his hand on my stomach, mine over his—until the tea kettle whistles.
He stands, pours me a cup, and adds honey without asking. Sets it in front of me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Ginger tea,” he says. “Helps with nausea.”
I wrap my hands around the mug. Breathe in the steam. “You’ve been researching.”
