It does help that we have kinda fallen into a routine. Every morning, I watch him pull on his clothes, tucking his gun into the waistband of his pants with the same quiet care he uses to tuck me back under the blankets. Every morning, he presses one kiss to my forehead—just one—and murmurs something soft in Russian that curls warm and sweet around my heart even though I don’t understand all of it yet.
Then he leaves for the day.
And I go to the shop, pretending my life is as normal as it looks from the outside. I trim stems. Rearrange displays. Chat with Mrs. Hill about her son’s school play. Comfort Vanda when men walk too close to the counter. Serve coffee to regulars. Smile. Work. Wait.
Because by seven o’clock every evening, without fail, the bell over the shop door chimes.
And he’s there.
Still in dark clothing. Still looking like danger wrapped in discipline. Still wearing that look he only ever gives me—the one that makes my heart flutter like it’s trying to speak a language my mouth hasn’t caught up to yet.
We close the shop together like it’s a ritual we’ve always had. We check on my orchids on the second floor, the warm glow of the grow lights brushing over his sharp jaw, softening him in ways nothing else seems to. He listens as I talk about watering cycles and humidity levels, and I’ve caught him saying a flower’s name before I do.
Then he takes Vanda for her evening walk, her tail finally wagging for a man she trusts.
I make dinner.
He sets the table.
We eat.
Talk.
Sit in that quiet way that feels more intimate than words.
Then back to bed.
His hands on me.
His voice in my ear.
His patience unraveling me piece by piece until I fall asleep tangled around him again like I was made to fit there.
It’s only been a few days.
But it feels like something old.
Something inevitable.
Something that’s been waiting for the right moment to finally breathe.
And as much as I try to slow myself down—as much as I try to stay grounded—I know the truth every time I wake up beside him, his arm heavy across my stomach, his fingers curled loosely in the sheets like he’s holding the edge of a dream he doesn’t want to lose.
I’m falling in love with Viktor Balshov.
It’s crazy. He isn’t the kind of man I fantasized about as a girl. Far from it. I wanted a “normal” man that had nothing to do with the bratva lifestyle.
Jokes on me I guess.
I let out a soft sigh, glancing up at the small digital clock beside me on one counter. It’s a quiet afternoon and Viktor isn’t due for another thirty minutes. So I head to the backroom to organize inventory. And soon, the bell over the front door jingles. Just as I was expecting…
My heart skips in anticipation.
I smile to myself, smoothing my hair out of instinct as I head toward the doorway. “Viktor?” I call lightly. “You’re—”
Vanda’s terrified growl stops me dead. My heart skips again but not in anticipation this time.
Vanda only ever growls like that when she’s scared or cornered.
