The way he hums while he works.
The way he kneads dough with those massive, gentle hands that should absolutely not belong to a man that soft and unclaimed.
I click on the living room feed.
Empty.
Kitchen feed.
Also empty.
Bedroom.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed.
Head in his hands.
Still in his work clothes. Flour still dusting his forearms.
He hasn’t even showered yet.
My chest tightens.
I zoom in.
His shoulders are shaking.
Just slightly.
Oh, baby. You don’t get to fall apart alone. That’s what I’m for.
I check the timestamp.
Twenty minutes ago.
I scroll back.
Rewind to an hour before.
And then I see her.
Oksana.
In his house.
In his fucking house?
Who the hell does she think she is, trespassing in my territory?
She’s pacing. Gesturing. Her mouth moving fast and sharp.
Vitaly just stands there.
Taking it.
She grabs something off his counter.
A coffee mug.
