Dima gets there first. Pulls it out with no expression, like this is standard protocol. Lev lets out an exaggerated sigh and throws his hands up.
“Really? I was going to do it with flair,” he says, deadpan. “You robbed her of flair.”
Dima shrugs. “She’s not here for flair.”
“She might be!” Lev looks at me. “Are you here for flair?”
“I-I don’t know?” I manage, laughing as I sit. “I didn’t realize flair was an option.”
It’s ridiculous. It’s nothing. And yet somehow, it feels… weirdly important. Like they’re not just making space at the table; they’re making space forme. No eye rolls. No condescension. No one’s asking me to tone it down or make myself smaller. They’re just… pulling out a chair.
No man’s ever done that for me before, not without expecting something back. Not like this. Not with ease. Not like I’m allowed to exist in the room and take up actual space.
It throws me off more than it should.
Don’t get attached, my brain whispers.They’re criminals, not soulmates.
And besides, I have bigger problems.
Like the fact that someone out there literally wants me dead.
Like the fact that I’m sitting at an overpriced kitchen island with four mafia-adjacent men who want me to sneak a spy device into the corporate laptop of my senior manager.
Like the fact that said manager might be laundering money through my workplace. And my last boss? Oh, right… murdered in front of me.
Also:Jasper’s flying home tomorrow, and he’s going to take one look at me and start asking questions I’m not emotionally equipped to answer.
And, cherry on top: I haven’t taken a Plan B, I forgot my pill three days in a row, and I had unprotected sex with a man who probably has a hit list in his phone notes.
So yeah. That’s a lot.
Still, I’m sitting. I’m eating. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel like I’m intruding.
I feel like I belong.
Which is honestly… way scarier.
The rice is a little dry, the orange chicken too sweet, but I chew anyway, mostly just to give my hands something to do. My brain’s still cartwheeling. Every time I look up, one of them istalking like this is just…normal. Like we’re coworkers. Like it’s lunch break at some very intense startup where you occasionally carry a gun instead of a laptop.
I chase a bite of egg roll with a sip of water.
“About the USB—”
“You’re not doing it,” Anton says, cutting in before I can finish.
I blink. “Oh. Okay. I mean, I was going to say I could try again—”
“No.”
He says it without looking up from his container. Like it’s already decided. Like I’m the last one to get the memo.
Lev scoops up another dumpling and points it at me like a gavel. “Which means you officially suck at being bait. Congratulations.”
“Noted,” I mumble, blotting at my shirt with a crumpled napkin.
Somehow, during all the chewing and trauma-digesting, I managed to fling a spot of sauce across my chest. Right under the collarbone. Of course.
I try to scrub it out, which only makes it worse. Now I’ve got an orange smear and a damp patch. Cool. Super casual. Very professional espionage vibes.
