I breathe ten times then softly reply, "Thank you. That means a lot."
"I mean it," he says, meeting my gaze again.
I smile. "Okay. Good."
More silence fills the room. He finally stands, then hesitates. "Can I hug you? Please?"
Tears well and fall. I rise and lunge into him.
He wraps me in his arms tight, telling me in Russian he loves me and is sorry.
I cry in his arms, then gather my emotions. I pull away. "Thank you for my latte. It was a perfect surprise."
He gives a small, sad smile. "Anytime." Then he leaves quietly, shutting the door behind him.
I sit back down slowly, my heart racing from the strange, fragile feeling of something old finally loosening its grip.
Making peace doesn't feel like surrender. It feels like breathing.
I finish the last of my work on autopilot. Emails get answered. Fabric swatches get filed. I say goodbye to Mom and promise I'll see her tomorrow, my voice light even though my chest still feels tender from the conversation with Dad. But it's the good kind of ache. It's the kind that comes from something old finally shifting into place.
When I step outside, the air feels lighter. The city seems to breathe with me instead of pressing down on me.
Red opens the door for me when I approach his front door. His eyes twinkle. "Hey."
"Hey," I reply, smiling before I can stop myself.
He studies my face like he always does, checking in without asking. "Good day?"
I nod. "Yeah. I talked to my dad."
His shoulders ease. He doesn't push for details. He never does unless I invite him in. Instead, he kisses my temple, then murmurs, "Good. Because I'm taking you out tonight."
Excitement hits me. I blink. "Out out?"
"Hot date." He grins bigger and winks.
My heart skips. "Should I be nervous?"
"Always," he teases. "Go get ready. Put on that sexy black dress you just got."
That's all it takes for me. I rush to the bedroom and shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water calm the adrenaline buzzing through me. I finally turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and go into my closet.
I find the black dress and stare at it. It's the one that hugs my waist and skims my hips. The neckline is low enough to feel daring but elegant enough to feel like me. And the fabric is soft and fluid, clinging in all the right places without making me feel trapped.
I do my hair and makeup, get dressed, then slip into my favorite stilettos, secure the thin straps, and admire the dangerously high heels that make my legs look endless. I stare at my reflection.
Impractical and unapologetic.
Perfect.
When I walk into the living room, Red goes still. His eyes darken in that way that makes heat bloom low in my stomach. "Jesus, Bluebird."
I laugh, my nerves fluttering. "Is that good or bad?"
He steps closer, his hands settle at my waist, making the heat fire hotter in my core. "Very good."
He steers me out of the condo and into his car. The ride is filled with music and easy conversation. He keeps one hand on my thigh like a tether, grounding me when my thoughts start racing.
