20
Lev
I spend the first hour outside Polina’s building telling myself I’m here for security, not punishment.
That lie dies fast.
I park across from the entrance with the seat pushed back and my coat folded under my head like a pillow, cramped and uncomfortable as I keep watch.
I deserve worse.
My phone sits on my chest. I check it every few minutes. No messages from her. Nothing from Ruslan except a short text at 11 p.m. asking if I needed company. I tell him no. He sends back one word.
Idiot.
Fair.
I doze for maybe twenty minutes at a time and wake every time a door slams on the street. My neck aches. My shoulders burn. My head won’t shut off. Every version of tomorrow ends inDmitri Kozlov’s office, and every version after that gets harder to picture.
At 12:03 a.m., my phone dings.
I grab it so fast that I almost drop it. It’s a text from Polina.
If you’re going to brood in my parking lot like a divorced father in a bad film, come upstairs.
I stare at the screen for half a second and chuckle because she is furious enough to insult me and still letting me in.
I text back.
You knew I was here?
You look like a criminal on a stakeout. Come up before I change my mind.
The stairwell smells like old paint and someone’s dinner. I take the steps two at a time, then slow before I hit her floor because the last thing I need is to walk into her apartment looking like I’m about to kick a door in.
She opens before I knock.
Polina stands in the doorway barefoot, with her hair loose and messy and eyes red at the rims. A vodka bottle hangs from her fingers, and she’s wearing soft gray sleep shorts and a white tank top with no bra. My body reacts so hard that I have to lock my jaw for a second.
She looks pissed and wrung out, and she’s drunk enough that she wobbles when she leans on the frame.
“You took long enough,” she complains.
“You invited me thirty seconds ago.”
She points the bottle at my chest. “Do not get technical with me tonight.”
I step inside and close the door, locking it. “How much have you had?”
“Enough to hate you properly.” She turns and stumbles toward the kitchen.
I follow her and watch the way she holds onto the counter when she stops. Two shot glasses sit beside the sink. One is empty. The other is half full.
She takes a swallow straight from the bottle and winces.
I move in and take it from her before she can pull away.
“Hey,” she squeaks.
