Every hour. Every minute. Every second.
He wasn’t just gone. He was coming back. Thinking about me. Counting down the days until he could be here.
The tears fall faster. But I’m laughing too. This broken, messy sound that’s half-sob, half-relief.
My hands move to his face. Cupping his cheeks. Feeling the stubble scratch my palms. The warmth of his skin. The realness of him.
“You counted,” I whisper. “You were counting too.”
“Every fucking day,malyshka.” His voice cracks. “Every morning, I woke up thinking ‘twelve more days.’ ‘Ten more days.’ ‘One more day and I can see her.’”
A sob breaks free. “I thought I was the only one—”
“No.” He turns his head, kisses my palm. “Never. You were all I thought about. The only thing that kept me going.”
I can’t stop touching him. Can’t stop crying. Can’t stop laughing through the tears.
And I can’t take my eyes off him.
Not for a second. Not even to blink.
Because if I do—if I look away for even a moment—he might disappear. Might dissolve back into a dream. Might become another ghost I’ve been chasing for thirteen endless days.
So I stare. I memorize.
The dark circles under his eyes, deeper than before. Evidence of sleepless nights. Of Moscow. Of fighting his way back to me.
The healing cut on his jaw—fresh, still pink at the edges. A reminder that he bled for this. That he fought.
Stubble darker than usual, like he hasn’t had time to shave. Like getting here mattered more than anything else.
He looks exhausted. Wrung out. Like he’s been through hell and barely made it back.
Dangerous. Still dangerous. Maybe more so now—sharp edges and hard lines and violence barely contained.
But alive.
God, he’s alive.
And he’s here.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the reason he survived.
“Is it done?” I ask. “Igor—”
“It’s done.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m a lot of things,malyshka. A killer. A bastard. A man who doesn’t deserve you. But I’m also stubborn as hell. And a little hiccup in Moscow wasn’t about to stop me from getting back here. To you. For your birthday.”
“A little hiccup?”
His mouth curves. “Igor tried to make it complicated. I made it simple.”
Which means Igor’s dead. Which means it’s really over.
“You kept your promise,” I whisper.
“I always will.”
Then he’s kissing me.
