“I’ve been falling for you,” he says, and the words land like a blow, soft but devastating. “And I’ve been pretending I’m not. Pretending it’s just the arrangement. Pretending I don’t care where you are or who’s near you or if you’re scared or hurt or gone.” His voice drops even lower, breaking only slightly. “Pretending I didn’t almost lose my mind when you walked into that basement. Pretending I wasn’t terrified of what you’d think of me after.”
He looks like the confession physically hurts him, like dragging these truths out cost him something permanent, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I realize he’s not afraid of losing control. He’s afraid of losingme.
My breath catches.
“And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
The room seems to tilt again, but slower this time, like my body is adjusting to a different kind of gravity.
“Artyom…”
“I know it’s insane. I know the timeline is insane. I know you didn’t agree to any of this. And I’m not going to pressure you into a week, or a month, or anything you don’t want. But I want to be with you, arrangement or not. And I don’t want anyone thinking they can touch you or take you or even look at you like you’re something they have access to.”
He stops, breath shaky for the first time since I’ve known him.
“When it comes to you,” he says again, slower this time, “I only know that losing you feels like dying. And that terrifies me.”
Something in me collapses, folds inward, softens and I move toward him before I can stop myself.
“Artyom,” I say, voice unsteady. “If I agree to this—if I stay—there have to be conditions.”
His eyes lift to mine immediately, sharp and intense. “Name them.”
“I’m not giving up my life,” I say. “My things, my independence, my words, my friends. I won’t become some quiet version of myself that exists just to make your world easier.”
“You won’t,” he says instantly, the words coming out so fast and so sure that it feels like he’s been waiting his whole life to say them.
“I need space sometimes,” I say, my fingers twisting at the hem of my shirt before I force them still.
“I’ll give it to you,” he replies, softer this time, his gaze dropping to my hands like he wants to take them but doesn’t trust himself yet.
“I get a say in everything. Everything.” My voice wavers, but I hold his eyes.
“You will,” he says with a slow nod, taking another step toward me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body even though he isn’t touching me.
“And if I ever feel like you’re treating me like something you own?—”
“I won’t,” he cuts in, stepping closer with a quiet finality, his voice low and certain as his chest rises with a steady breath. “Not you.”
I inhale slowly, trying to calm the shaking I can feel building in my chest. “Then I’m in.”
He goes so still it feels like the air stops moving with him. His eyes widen just a fraction, his throat tightening on a breath he forgets to release, and for a split second he looks like a man getting something he didn’t believe he’d ever be allowed to have.
“Say it again,” he whispers, his voice rough, almost broken, as if he needs to hear it one more time to trust it’s real.
“I’m in,” I repeat, my voice steadier this time as I lift my chin, meeting his eyes without flinching.
Something shifts in him, something hot and dark and desperate, and before I can register the movement, his hands slide to my waist, pulling me against him in one smooth, controlled motion that steals whatever air I had left.
“You have no idea what that does to me,” he murmurs against my temple, his voice low and rough and trembling in a way I’ve never heard before.
My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to, my body already reacting faster than my thoughts.
“Artyom…”
He lifts my chin gently with his fingers, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, almost wild, almost undone.
“You’re mine,” he says, quiet but absolute, like the words came from somewhere deep inside him. “You chose me.”
