Ten minutes later, the first pancake bubbles. I flip it—clean, golden, perfect. A tiny surge of pride flickers in my chest.
“Not bad,” Lev concedes.
“High praise from the peanut gallery.”
Dima moves closer, watching the pan over my shoulder. He smells like cold air and something sharper—gunpowder, maybe, or just danger.
“Temperature is good,” he murmurs. “Flip at thirty seconds.”
“You know pancake timing?”
“I know everything.”
“Cocky.”
His mouth curves. Barely. “Accurate.”
I pour two more pancakes, these ones studded with chocolate chips and blueberries because apparently we’re making abominations now. Lev hops down from the counter, snags plates from the cabinet without asking, and sets them out like he’s done this a hundred times.
Maybe they’ve watched me enough to know where I keep everything.
It should feel invasive.
It feels… intimate.
We settle at the table—all of us, like actual people who do normal things like eat breakfast together. The plates clink as Lev stacks pancakes like he’s building a tower. Boris takes two, methodical, while Dima cuts his into precise squares before adding syrup.
“You eat like a serial killer,” I tell Dima.
He doesn’t look up. “Organized.”
“Sociopathic.”
“Efficient.”
Lev snorts, already three bites in. “He’s been like this forever. Drove his sister crazy.”
The words are casual, tossed out like nothing. But Dima goes still. Just for a heartbeat. His fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
Lev catches it. His eyes flick to Dima, something unreadable passing between them.
“Sister?” I ask, because apparently I have zero self-preservation instincts.
Silence.
Then Dima sets his fork down. “Katya.”
Two syllables. Soft. Careful. Like he’s handling glass.
“She was younger,” he continues, gaze fixed on his plate. “By six years. Small. Loud.” His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Very loud.”
“Sounds exhausting,” I offer, trying to lighten whatever just dropped into the room.
“She was.” But his voice is warm now. Warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “Always singing. Terrible voice. Didn’t care. She sang anyway.”
Lev has stopped eating. Just watching Dima with an expression I can’t quite read—surprise, maybe, or something deeper.
“She sounds amazing,” I say quietly.
