“Yes.”
The simplicity of the answer makes me huff a quiet breath of disbelief. “I don’t know why that surprises me.”
He glances at me briefly, the corner of his mouth hinting at amusement. “Because you assume control requires delegation.”
“Because most men who live like this don’t stand over a stove,” I counter.
He heats the pan, the oil shimmering as it warms, with a smooth turn of his wrist. The scent blooms instantly, rich andbold, filling the apartment in a way nothing else has since I arrived. He seasons the salmon carefully, not heavy-handed, then lowers it into the pan skin-side down. The sizzle is immediate. He doesn’t crowd the pan and doesn’t rush.
“I learned early,” he says, his attention on the food. “Reliance is a vulnerability.”
I watch him move around the kitchen, tasting as he goes, adjusting salt, and adding a squeeze of lemon at the last moment. He sautés the tomatoes until they blister and collapse, folds in spinach until it wilts just enough, and finishes everything with fresh herbs torn by hand rather than chopped. It’s quiet work. There’s something unexpectedly human about watching him do something that isn’t about power or protection.
When he plates the food, it’s simple and thoughtful. No garnish for show, just balance.
We eat at the small dining table near the windows, the city glowing beyond the glass. The salmon is perfect. Crisp skin and tender center. The vegetables are bright and clean, the flavors layered without competing. I don’t bother hiding my surprise.
“This is… really good,” I admit.
He lifts his eyes to mine, searching my face as if determining whether I mean it. “I don’t do things halfway.”
“I’m noticing.”
For a while, we eat in companionable quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled. I realize halfway through the meal that myshoulders have lowered, and my breathing has slowed. I feel at ease.
Afterward, he clears the plates before I can protest, rinsing and loading the dishwasher with the same attention he brings to everything else. I stand nearby, unsure what to do with my hands, my awareness of him returning.
He disappears briefly down the hall, returning with two short glasses and a bottle cradled in his hand. The label is minimalist, the glass thick and heavy, and the stopper cut crystal. He sets it on the counter between us.
“Vodka?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“I didn’t take you for a collector,” I say, watching the way he handles it carefully.
“One bottle at a time,” he replies. “Different places. Different distilleries. It’s… a habit.”
He pours without measuring, the liquid clear as water, gleaming briefly before going still. The scent is clean when he slides a glass toward me. No burn or sharpness. I take a sip and pause, surprised by how smooth it is, and how it warms rather than scorches.
“This is dangerous,” I say.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “That one’s from Latvia. A small batch. It doesn’t announce itself.”
“Like you,” I note before I can stop myself.
He meets my gaze over the rim of his glass, something thoughtful passing through his eyes before he looks away. We sit at the counter, our shoulders not quite touching, with the city stretched out beyond the windows. He tells me about the collection without bragging. A bottle from Prague that was gifted after a negotiation. One from Helsinki, he bought himself. Another from Moscow he hasn’t opened yet.
“My mother used to say vodka should never be loud,” he adds. “She believed if you needed it to make noise, you were drinking for the wrong reason.”
The mention of her alters the air. Not heavy, just different.
“She taught me to cook,” he continues, his dark eyes fixed on the glass in his hand. “Simple food. Things that could be made well without excess. She valued control, but not cruelty.” His thumb traces the rim once, a small, unconscious movement. “She didn’t belong in my father’s world. She survived it as long as she could.”
He’s told me before how she died during childbirth. How she never made it out of the room, only his sister. I don’t reopen that door. Some losses don’t require questions to be understood.
I lift my glass instead, a quiet acknowledgment of what isn’t said. “To quiet things,” I say.
He clinks his glass against mine, the sound soft. “To knowing when to keep them that way.”
We move toward the sofa without quite deciding to. It happens gradually, our glasses abandoned on the counter, and the city lights pulling us forward like gravity. When I lower myself onto the cushion, he sits beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him along my arm.
