I straighten the last pillow on the couch. Not because it needs it—just because I need something to do with my hands.
Gordo follows me, tail flicking, like he suspects I might open tuna by accident. Every time I stop moving, he bumps my ankle with his head and stares up like he expects answers.
Join the club, buddy.
The dishwasher hums softly behind me. The drawer still holds the watch and bracelet, tucked exactly where I left them after drying off and changing. I haven’t looked again. Haven’t touched them. Just shut it and walked away.
It’s been a few hours since we got back. I’ve wiped the counters twice. Rearranged the contents of the fridge like it’s a puzzle I might one day solve. Checked the peephole. Once.
Twice.
Now I drift barefoot toward the kitchen like I’m sleepwalking. The floor feels cool under my toes. My hair’s dry, finally, and I’m wearing the soft pajama shorts I found folded in the laundry room like some kind of Bratva welcome gift.
The apartment is too quiet.
No Dima. No Anton. No random Bratva dude assembling weapons on the coffee table.
Just silence, cold and echoey, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the occasional softthumpof Gordo flopping down dramatically against the balcony door like he needs fresh air to digest his meal.
I peek out.
He’s out there now, sprawled across one of the outdoor lounge chairs, belly-up, paws twitching in his sleep. The wind ruffles his fur softly.
At least someone’s thriving.
I check my phone. Two bars. No new messages.
A second later, a text pops through from Grandma. It’s a blurry photo of her dinner plate. Some kind of stew with biscuits on the side. Ruth’s elbow is visible in the corner, mid-fork.
GramCracker: Ruth came over. We made beef tips. I told her you’re learning to shoot people now. She said that tracks. ?????
I huff a laugh, a smile tugging at my mouth before I can stop it.
At least Grandma’s happy.
I’m thumbing out a reply when a call comes in. Essie.
“Hey,” I answer, settling onto a stool at the kitchen island. “I was gonna call you later.”
“Mija, I’m so sorry,” she rushes out. “I was trying to find someone who could check on Gordo this weekend so I could fly back, but I can’t. I really can’t leave right now.”
My stomach dips. “What happened?”
“It’s Manny,” she says, breath catching. “His incision site got infected. They had to reopen it and keep him for observation. I’m staying here until at least next month.”
“Oh no. Is he okay?”
“He will be. They’ve got him on antibiotics. But he’s scared, and I-I just can’t leave him yet. I’m so sorry about this. I didn’t mean to dump my problems on you.”
“Essie,” I interrupt, warm but firm. “You didn’t. Gordo’s basically living in a five-star cat resort with unlimited balcony naps. He’s not complaining.”
I flip the camera around and snap a picture of Gordo in his current state—sunset glow, limbs in the air, stomach fully exposed.
I send the pic with a caption:
The prince approves.
Essie lets out a watery laugh. “He really does like you, huh?”
