“My hair clip,” I mutter as I circle to the other side of the bed, pushing the blanket aside with my knee. “The little gold one, the one shaped like a leaf. I put it somewhere this morning and now it’s nowhere, and I’m not going without it.”
There’s a brief silence, the kind where I know he’s staring at me, probably judging me, probably thinking this is ridiculous. Then he exhales, slow and deep, and I hear him step farther into the room until he’s close enough that his voice drops naturally, softening without him meaning to.
“Kira,” he says again, and this time my name sounds different coming out of his mouth, lower and warmer, like he’s trying not to smile even though he absolutely would deny it. “It’s a hair clip. I will buy you a million new ones.”
“I need this one,” I say, refusing to look at him because my face feels warm already. “And I’m not walking out there looking like I just woke up in an alley.”
“You don’t look like?—”
“I’m not leaving until I find it,” I repeat, firmer this time, meeting his eyes as I push another pile of clothes aside, and something about the way he watches me with his head tilted slightly, lips pressed together like he’s trying to decode my brain, makes my chest do something stupid and light.
Then, he sighs, rolls up his sleeves, and kneels beside me. And just like that, the mood shifts.
He starts looking around without asking where to start, moving things carefully instead of impatiently, lifting the corner of the mattress with one hand while sliding the other underneath, checking behind the pillows, glancing under the bed frame, opening the wardrobe and rummaging through the small drawer where I keep my jewelry. He’s quiet, but the silence is warm, oddly peaceful, almost domestic in a way that makes me feel something in my chest unclench.
We’re on the floor together, side by side, both of us searching for something as trivial as a hair clip, and somehow it feels like the softest moment we’ve had so far.
Artyom glances at me when I reach behind the nightstand and hit my elbow again. “You’re going to bruise yourself for a piece of metal,” he murmurs, shifting closer so he can move thenightstand with one arm and gesture for me to look behind it properly.
“It’s not just metal,” I say, leaning in and brushing dust aside. “It’s pretty.”
“That’s your criteria?” he asks, and there’s the smallest curve in the corner of his mouth.
“For a hairclip, it is,” I say, trying not to smile back.
He shakes his head and stands, brushing off his hands before crossing the room. I watch him move, and something about seeing him like this, quietly helping me search for something unimportant, makes me feel warm all over, like the tension from breakfast is melting into something softer.
“Check your bag again,” he says, opening the zipper without waiting for permission. “People always say they looked everywhere, and it’s always the first place they think it isn’t.”
“I did,” I say.
He ignores me completely, pushing things aside, lifting fabric, and then?—
I see the moment he finds it because his hand slows, his fingers closing around something small and gold. He pulls it out and holds it between his fingers, the little leaf catching the light as he studies it briefly, then looks at me.
“You mean this?” he says, smiling now, real and warm and almost teasing.
My stomach flips.
“Where was it?” I ask, standing too quickly.
“Bottom of the bag,” he says. “Exactly where you didn’t look.”
“I did?—”
“You didn’t.”
I cross the room, snatch it from his hand, and he lets me, his fingers brushing mine, and I feel the contact travel up my arm. For a second too long, we just stand there, close enough that I can feel his breath, close enough that if I stepped toward him I’d be in his space, in his chest, in his arms.
I look away first.
He clears his throat lightly. “We need to go. I have some business to conduct and I don’t want you out of my sight after last night.”
I pin the clip into my hair, my fingers trembling just enough for me to hope he doesn’t notice, but he’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, something almost soft underneath the hard lines of his face.
“Calina and Milana?” I ask.
“Not coming,” he says immediately. “There’s no way in hell those two are stepping foot in this place.”
