“Polina—”
“Let me finish. I have lied to my colleagues every day for two months now. I did all of it knowing whose last name you carry and what that means for mine, so no more pretending. If this is going to be real, it starts now, with the truth.”
The railing is cold under my palm as I squeeze it. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers trail along my jaw before he drops his hand. The tenderness of it, right here in the middle of this, nearly undoes me.
“I’ve known who you are since the moment I came through your doors,” he admits.
“Then stop pretending you didn’t. That’s all I’m asking.”
The city noise fills the space around us, and he doesn’t rush to cover the quiet, which is something I’ve noticed about him. He doesn’t feel the need to fill every pause the way most people do.
“You’re right,” he concedes.
“I know I am.”
Something moves at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve known this whole time, and you still falsified my records.”
“Don’t make it sound noble. I made a split-second decision, and I’ve lived with it every day since.”
“I know. And nothing I feel is a lie. Whatever else comes, that part is true. I promise you that much.”
It’s not the kind of statement I know how to deflect. I’ve spent two months combing through the reasons this is a bad idea. All of them remain valid, and none of them have done anything useful. I say nothing, and he seems to understand that silence from me isn’t the same as walking away. He reaches over and takes my hand off the railing, lacing his fingers through mine.
The cold has gone from uncomfortable to genuinely serious. My cardigan stopped being adequate about ten minutes ago, and I’m losing sensation in places that would concern me professionally if they belonged to a patient.
“You need to go inside.” He reads my discomfort.
“You need to stop telling me what I need.”
“Polina.” There’s something almost fond in the way he says my name. The way you say the name of someone whose stubbornness you’ve come to expect.
I push off the railing. “Fine. But only because I can’t feel my feet.”
He holds the door open, and I step through first. The warmth of the apartment settles over me, and I stop in the middle of the room, turning to face him as he closes the door behind us. He stands there with his hand on the latch, watching me with an expression he gets when he has decided something and is giving me time to arrive at the same place.
“Say it,” I tell him.
“Say what?”
“You have a tell, you know.”
He lifts one brow slightly. “Do I?”
I press my lips together as I smile and nod. “It’s very obvious.”
He lets out a chuckle and replies, “Noted.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” He crosses toward me, and I hold my ground. I have never backed away from anything in my life, and I’m not going to start with him. My pulse climbs with every step he takes, and by the time he stops in front of me, my heart is hammering against my ribcage. He’s close enough that I have to tip my chin up to make eye contact. “I just want to know one thing.”
“All right,” I breathe.
“Are you scared?”
The question lands somewhere unexpected. I consider lying, because it’s faster, and I’m good at it. But I asked him for the truth just minutes ago on a freezing fire escape, and it would be hypocritical to dodge now. “Yes,” I confess. “Aren’t you?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “Hasn’t changed anything.”
