Normal people living normal lives, making normal mistakes.
And then there’s me. Anton fucking Malikov, about to walk in there and join their ranks.
The CVS doors slide open with a hiss. The place smells like disinfectant and stale candy. Too bright, too quiet.
A kid in a hoodie pushes past me, clutching two Monster cans and a bag of chips. He can’t be more than seventeen. The cashier barely looks up.
I head straight for the aisle I need. Family planning, they call it. Shelves lined with condoms, pregnancy tests, and lube. Plan B is locked behind clear plastic. Of course it is.
“Need help with something?” The voice comes from behind me. I turn. Pharmacy clerk. Twenty-something, bored, red hair under a CVS cap. Name tag says “Leah.”
“Plan B,” I say. No point in dancing around it.
She nods like it’s nothing, grabs a key, and pops open the case.
“Two-pack or single?”
“Everything,” I tell her. “All of it.”
She pauses. “Uh… You mean—?”
I gesture at the whole shelf. “Plan B. Whatever versions you’ve got. Just put them in a bag.”
Her gum almost falls out of her mouth.
“That’s… one way to handle it.” She unlocks the case, grabs the first few boxes, and hands them over like she’s not sure if I’m serious or insane.
I pay cash. No change. No receipt. Bag in hand, I walk out.
The Strip’s chaos falls behind me, replaced by the hush of the garage as I pull back into the penthouse. Bag on the passenger seat, a reminder of how badly I fucked up tonight.
Elevator up. Keycard. Door swings open—
And I freeze.
It smells… good. Garlic, butter, something frying in a pan. The kind of smell you don’t get in this life. The kind that makes four walls feel like home.
She’s barefoot in my kitchen.
Gray socks, loose T-shirt, soft shorts like she pulled them on just to be comfortable. Hair damp, curling at the ends. No makeup, no effort, and still—she knocks the air out of me.
She stirs the pan like it’s second nature. Gordo sits fat and entitled at her feet, tail flicking, waiting for scraps. Even the cat looks at home here.
Then she looks up and smiles at me. Quick. Unthinking. Hazel eyes catching the light, soft and warm, like she doesn’t know who she’s looking at.
And it hits harder than a bullet. My feet don’t move. My heart goes uneven in my chest, too fast, too much.
I’ve had women look at me with hunger, fear, calculation. Never like this. Like I’m someone worth smiling at. Like I’m not made of scars and violence.
“Hey,” she says, voice low from steam and quiet. “How was traffic?”
I realize I’m still standing in the doorway like a statue, a plastic bag in my hand. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she echoes, like it’s an inside joke we don’t have yet. She flicks the pan; pasta slides through glossy oil with eggs and a handful of chopped something—parsley? The sound is soft and greedy at once.
Gordo chirps, headbutting her calf. She nudges him with her foot.
“No, sir. You had dinner. Don’t pretend you’re starving, you liar.”
