“He’s two years older than me,” I continue quietly. I hesitate. “Both my parents died when I was ten. Lucas and I were placed in foster care and got separated. We both had a rough time surviving the system. I didn’t see him again until I was in my early twenties, after looking for him for years. At first, he said he’d take care of me, but he could barely take care of himself. He always thought he had to fix everything. Except he didn’t. He had always gambled to survive once he turned eighteen. Smallat first—cards, football bets, stupid things—but it got worse. I offered him a place to stay and helped him however I could, to try to keep him out of trouble. Sometimes, I’d come home to find men waiting in the hallway, wanting what he owed.”
Artyom’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel something in him go still, like he recognizes the shape of it. “You paid for him.”
I nod once. “Every time I could. I was working two shifts at the hospital, sometimes back-to-back. I’d take a nap in the staff lounge, shower with those awful paper towels, and go back out again. I kept thinking if I covered for him long enough, he’d stop.”
His thumb moves against my waist, barely there, almost like he’s checking that I’m still here. “Did he?”
“I suppose you already know the answer to that since I’m here with you,” I shake my head, a small bitter smile forming. “He just got better at pretending he would. So, I did what I had to.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I learned to survive,” I say quietly. “To make rent before worrying about sleep. To keep my phone charged because you never know when he’ll need help. To smile at people who scare you because it keeps them calm.”
He studies me like he’s seeing something new. “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”
I let out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. “You think I had a choice?”
His hand presses gently against my back, guiding me through another slow turn. “No,” he says finally. “But I think it explains why you don’t know how to let anyone help you now.”
The words hit harder than they should. I want to argue, but I can’t because he’s right.
“I didn’t know there was another way,” I say, my voice low.
“There is,” he says. “You just haven’t seen it yet.”
I look up at him then, and his eyes are softer now, not cold, not guarded. For the first time, I can imagine what he must have looked like before this life hardened him. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to believe him.
The music softens again, the last few notes fading into applause around us. He doesn’t let go right away. His hand stays at my back, his thumb moving in slow circles, grounding me in a way that feels too gentle for him.
I look up at him. “You talk like someone who’s never had to survive.”
He exhales through his nose, a faint smile on his lips. “Everyone survives something.”
We stand there in silence for a few beats longer than polite. When he finally drops his hand, the absence feels too sharp.
“Come on,” he says, his voice back to that measured calm. “It’s late.”
He offers his arm without a word, and I take it because it’s easier than pretending I don’t want to. The music fades behind us as we walk toward the elevator.
The elevator ride is silent. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks flushed, too alive. He stands behind me, his tie loosened, jacket still open. He’s all shadow and discipline, but there’s something in the set of his mouth that gives him away. He’s overthinking.
When we reach our floor, he holds the bedroom door open and lets me pass first. The hallway feels endless, every step echoing through the quiet. Inside the suite, the air conditioner hums softly, the curtains drawn tight.
He closes the door behind him, his voice low but calm. “We should get some rest.”
I glance at the bed—massive, too neat, somehow intimidating. “Where are you going to sleep?”
He looks at me like the answer’s obvious. “In the bed.”
I blink. “Okay… and where am I supposed to sleep then?”
“In the bed.”
I blink at him, certain I misheard. He’s not even joking—his expression is maddeningly calm, and it makes me want to throw something just to see if he’d flinch. My stomach twists before I can stop it, half nerves, half something else I don’t even want to think about. He looks so damn sure of himself standing there with his tie loosened and that faint trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.
I fold my arms. “No.”
That makes him smirk, slow and infuriating. He undoes the top buttons of his shirt, the movement casual but deliberate. “After what happened earlier, you’re shy now?”
