I’m dreaming.
I have to be dreaming.
Because I can smell him. All of him, filling my lungs. Not just the memory of him, but the actual scent—cedar, gunpowder, that expensive cologne, and underneath it all, justhim.
Stillness.
The engine’s stopped. The movement’s gone. We’re not driving anymore. Home. We must be home.
But I don’t want to open my eyes. Don’t want to face the empty penthouse. The cold sheets. The reality that he’s still not here.
So I keep them closed. Keep pretending. Keep living in this dream where I can feel him close. Where his presence wraps around me like warmth.
Just a little longer. Please.
I hear it then: the driver’s door opening. Closing. The quiet thud of it. Footsteps on pavement. Coming around. Slow. Deliberate.
Then my door opens.
Cool night air rushes in, replacing the warmth of the car. I should open my eyes. Should sit up. Should thank Dima for driving and drag myself upstairs to the empty penthouse.
But I can’t. I’m too tired. Too sad. Too everything.
Just one more second. One more moment of pretending before I have to face reality.
A presence leans in. Close. So close I can feel body heat. Smell cedar and gunpowder and something underneath that makes my chest ache.
Warm fingers brush my cheek. Gentle. Reverent.
“Malyshka,” a voice whispers. Deep. Russian. Wrecked.
I lean into the touch. Into the dream. Because if this is all I get, I’ll take it.
His thumb traces my jawline. Down to my chin. Back up to my temple.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re crying.”
Am I crying?
I must be. Because I feel wetness on my cheeks. Feel the ache in my chest that only comes from missing someone so much it physically hurts.
Lips press against my forehead. Soft. Lingering.
“I’m here,” the voice says. “I’m right here.”
But he’s not. He can’t be. He’s in Moscow or on a plane or anywhere but here.
This is just a dream. A beautiful, cruel dream.
The tears come harder. I don’t try to stop them.
“Don’t cry, my love.” His voice breaks on the words. “Please don’t cry.”
Hands cup my face. Thumbs wiping away tears.
And that’s when I smell it again. Stronger. Real.
Cedar. Gunpowder. Home.
