She scribbles, gum snap echoing, but as she slides my coffee back in front of me, I notice something tucked under the cup.
A note.
In loopy waitress handwriting:You okay? Need me to blink twice for you?
I almost choke on my own spit.
I glance at Anton.
Anton doesn’t notice. Neither does Dima. They’ve slipped into deep Russian, low and fast, voices cutting sharp edges I don’t understand. The kind of conversation you know you don’t want translated.
The waitress is still hovering by the counter, pretending to refill a sugar jar but very obviously watching me like she’s about to stage a rescue mission. My pulse jumps. I can’t exactly flash the note without getting shot, so I do the only thing I can think of—give her the world’s most unconvincing thumbs-up.
Her brows shoot up, then she shakes her head like,“Girl, you’re on your own.”
Lev is leaning back, chair tipped, one ear cocked toward Anton and Dima. For once, he isn’t cracking jokes. He’s listening hard. Which is weird enough on its own, but what’s weirder? Dima’s actually talking. A lot. Words tumbling out, fast and sharp.
I’ve never heard him say more than ten words in English at a time, and suddenly he’s some Russian motor-mouth. Maybe it was a language barrier all along. Or maybe he’s just so pissed off, even vowels can’t hold him back.
A pair of tourists at the next booth catch a string of those harsh syllables and immediately stand up, shuffling two tables over with their pancakes like they’re fleeing a gas leak. They try to make it discreet. Spoiler: it isn’t.
Anton’s expression is stone. Cold. Like even the chipped Formica table is beneath his attention. And that’s when it clicks—they’re using Russian on purpose. Not just to keep me out, but to keepeveryoneout.
A diner full of old men in trucker caps and ladies ordering pancakes, and all I can hear is Anton’s voice sounding like it belongs in a basement interrogation scene.
Everything is dangerous. Even breakfast.
And I can’t stop replaying the words I heard before I barged into their little pow-wow earlier:
We hit back.
The phrase rolls around in my head like a marble in a dryer.
Hit back… how? Hitwhoback? With a lawsuit? A passive-aggressive Yelp review?
No. Knowing them, “hit back” probably involves guns, fire, and someone’s kneecaps not surviving the day.
The clatter of plates interrupts my mental disaster spiral. Our waitress returns, balancing three dishes up her arm like a pro. She’s careful, though, giving me one last“Are you safe? Blink twice”glance before setting everything down.
Lev’s plate is an artery’s worst nightmare: a triple-stack of pancakes drowning in butter, bacon piled like firewood, and something that might once have been eggs hiding under the debris. Dima gets steak and eggs—medium rare steak, of course, because God forbid he eats anything that isn’t bleeding. Anton? Black coffee. Just black coffee. Because of course.
My plate lands in front of me. Scrambled eggs, toast, one sad slice of ham, bacon, and sausage. My stomach growls so loudly it could qualify for the bass section in a choir.
Lev snorts out a laugh, nearly choking on his water. Anton glances over at me, one eyebrow lifted.
“What?” I shoot back, defensive, clutching my fork like it’s Exhibit A. “This isn’t even enough to cover half the cardio your boss put me through this morning.”
Lev cackles. Dima just scowls deeper.
And me? I don’t think. I stab the ham, shove it into my mouth, and chew like I haven’t seen food in a week. When I finally swallow, I notice Anton’s still watching me. Steady. Hungry. Except… maybe not just for food.
Something stupid and reckless short-circuits in my brain. Before I can stop myself, I cut a small piece of ham, balance it on the fork, and—oh, God—hold it out to him. Like I’m feeding a baby. Or worse. A boyfriend.
Silence.
The whole table freezes. Lev’s jaw drops. Dima looks like he’s calculating whether stabbing me or Anton first would be less paperwork. The waitress, mid-pour with a coffee pot, actually stops and stares like“Is this bitch for real?”
My soul leaves my body. I’m about to yank the fork back when Anton leans in. Slow. Deliberate. He opens his mouth and bites down on the ham.
