"I believe you." He pulled me into his arms, and I went willingly, pressing my face against his chest. "You look tired."
"I am tired. But it's a good tired." I closed my eyes, letting his warmth seep into me. "Thank you. For making this happen."
"I told you. I'd do anything to make you happy."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
We stood there for a long moment, wrapped around each other in the fading afternoon light. Outside, the city hummed with its endless energy. Inside, there was only this—his heartbeat against my cheek, his arms around my waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
"I'm glad you came to my office," I said quietly. "That first day. Even with everything that's happened since—I'm glad."
"So am I."
"Even though I was a terrible therapist?"
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "You were an excellent therapist. That was the problem. You saw too much."
"I saw what you wanted me to see. Eventually."
"No." He pulled back to look at me, his expression serious. "You saw what I was afraid to show anyone. That's different."
I reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "You're not what I expected. When you first walked in, I thought you were just another rich man withmoney and problems and no real interest in changing. I've seen dozens of men like that."
"And now?"
"Now I think you might be the most complicated person I've ever met. And I've met a lot of complicated people."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." I smiled. "The compliment is that I like complicated. It keeps things interesting."
He kissed me then, soft and slow, and I felt something settle in my chest. Not happiness, exactly—the situation was too precarious for happiness. But something close. Something that felt like the beginning of a life I hadn't known I wanted.
***
That night, he cooked dinner—actually cooked, not just threw together pasta like the first time. Salmon with herbs, roasted vegetables, a salad with homemade dressing. I sat at the island and watched him work, sipping wine and asking questions about the recipes.
"My mother taught me this one," he said, carefully seasoning the fish. "She used to make it for special occasions. Birthdays, holidays, the first day of spring."
"The first day of spring?"
"She believed in celebrating small things. Said life was too short to only be happy on the big occasions." He slid the salmon into the oven and turned to face me. "I didn't understand that when I was young. Thought it was silly. Now I think she was the wisest person I've ever known."
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was." His expression softened with memory. "She would have liked you."
"You think so?"
"I know so. She always said I needed someone who would challenge me. Keep me honest." He smiled. "You definitely do that."
We ate at the table by the window, the city lights spreading out below us like a second sky. The food was good—better than good—and the conversation flowed easily. He told me stories about his childhood, about Mikhail and Demyan and Kirill, about the mother who had tried so hard to give them normal lives in the midst of chaos.
"What about you?" he asked, refilling my wine glass. "You know about my family. The good parts, the bad parts. But I only know fragments of yours."
I tensed slightly, the instinctive reaction I'd developed over years of deflecting questions about my past. But this was Rodion. He already knew the worst of it—that my father had been a monster, that he'd killed my mother, that I'd spent twelve years hiding from his shadow.
