He was quiet for a moment. "No. It's not."
I moved closer, reaching up to touch his face. The stubble along his jaw was rough beneath my fingers, his skin warm. "Talk to me."
"About what?"
"About whatever you're not saying."
He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm. "I'm not not saying anything. I'm just... thinking."
"About?"
"About what happens if I don't come back."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I'd been thinking the same thing all day—the fear I couldn't escape, the worst-case scenarios playing on a loop in my mind. But hearing him say it out loud made it suddenly, terribly real.
"Don't," I said. "Don't talk like that."
"It's not pessimism. It's planning." His eyes met mine, steady and serious. "If something happens to me, Yegor will get you out. Demyan will make sure you're protected. The baby—"
"Stop." I pressed my fingers to his lips. "I don't want to hear contingency plans for your death. I want you to come back."
"I'm going to come back."
"Then stop talking about what happens if you don't."
He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me, his chin resting on top of my head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"I'm already scared. I've been scared since you told me it was happening tomorrow." I burrowed into his chest, holding on tight. "I keep thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. All the things I should have said, should have done."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Something. Anything." I pulled back to look at him. "I've spent my whole life running from connections. Keeping people at arm's length so it wouldn't hurt when I lost them. And now—"
"Now?"
"Now I have something to lose. Someone." I swallowed hard. "And I don't know how to do this. How to care about someone who walks into danger like it's nothing."
"It's not nothing. It's never nothing." He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were falling. "But it's necessary. Cormac won't stop. As long as he's alive, you're not safe. Our child isn't safe."
"I know. I know that. It doesn't make it easier."
"No. It doesn't."
We stood there for a long moment, holding each other in the fading light. Outside, the city was coming alive for the evening—lights flickering on, traffic humming, millions of people going about their lives without any idea of the violence being planned in their midst.
"Come on," Rodion said finally. "Let's make dinner. Something that takes a long time. Something complicated."
"You want to cook?"
"I want to do something with my hands that isn't planning an assault." He smiled, a small thing that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And I want to spend the evening with my wife. Is that allowed?"
My wife. The words sent a shiver through me, even now.
"That's allowed," I said.
***
We made pasta from scratch—the kind that required kneading and rolling and cutting, the kind that took hours and left flour everywhere. Rodion was patient, methodical, showing me techniques his mother had taught him decades ago.
