He doesn’t even slow down. “It’s the story, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to?—”
“I did,” he says simply. “You said they wouldn’t give you time off. Now you have it.”
I stare at him, half grateful, half furious. “You can’t just walk into my job and?—”
He looks over, calm as ever. “Kira, it worked. Don’t make it a big deal.”
I laugh under my breath. “You don’t even understand what you did. My boss thinks I’m—she thinks we’re?—”
He steps closer, voice low. “She thinks you’re mine. Which, for now, you are.”
The words land somewhere deep in my chest, hot and unwanted. I take a step back. “You can’t say things like that.”
“I can say whatever’s true.”
I don’t know if it’s the way his voice drops when he says it, or the way his eyes hold mine like he’s daring me to argue, but something inside me stirs—anger, heat, something that shouldn’t be there.
We start walking toward the parking lot. His car is waiting, same black monster from yesterday. I fall into step beside him, trying not to think about how tall he is, how quiet his movements are, how he seems to take up more space than he actually does.
His shoulder brushes mine once, barely there, but enough to make me aware of every inch of space between us. I hate howeasy it is for him to take over the air around me, how my pulse keeps adjusting to his rhythm instead of mine.
He opens the car door for me and waits. I don’t thank him, I just get in.
The drive is quiet, the city stretched out in grays and yellow streetlights, everything dull except for him. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t look at me, but I feel him there, steady and unreadable, carrying that same calm certainty that makes me want to push until he finally cracks.
I glance out the window, trying to pretend the silence doesn’t bother me, then check my phone. No messages. The last one from Lucas is still the same—three words sent a week ago that don’t mean anything now.I got this.
I type out a quick text anyway,Are you okay?, then delete it before hitting send. What’s the point? If Artyom can’t find him, what chance do I have?
The thought makes my throat tighten. He’s still my brother. For all his mistakes, I can’t stop picturing him somewhere out there, hurt or scared, maybe already past the point of being saved.
My screen goes dark again, and I slip the phone into my pocket, forcing my gaze back to the blur of headlights ahead. Beside me, Artyom doesn’t notice—or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
When we stop outside my building, I’m already reaching for the handle, ready to escape whatever this silence has turned into. But then I hear the door on his side open too, and a second later, he’s following me inside.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask, turning halfway up the stairs.
“I need your questionnaire,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“It’s not due today.”
“It is now.”
I sigh, climbing the last few steps. Inside, the apartment feels smaller with him in it. He closes the door behind him, not slamming it, just quietly shutting the rest of the world out. I drop my bag on the couch and cross my arms.
“Make yourself at home,” I mutter.
He looks around slowly, his gaze moving over the couch, the counter, the books stacked near the window, until it settles on the table where the papers are still spread out. He walks toward them with the calm certainty of someone who already knew they would be there, then reaches out and flips through them as if confirming what he expected to find.
“You didn’t finish,” he says and sits on the couch.
“I didn’t have time.”
“You had all night.”
“I also have a job,” I snap.
