Am I expected to be more of a man than the animal I know myself to be? The one that’s been pacing inside me every night for years, growling at every man who’s ever made her smile? The one that watched her from across the room and imagined sinking teeth into that soft, untouched future she always seemed to carry?
I rise slowly from the chair and cross the space between us. She’s still breathing softly, lashes fluttering just slightly like she’s caught in some dream she doesn’t want to wake from.
I kneel beside the bed, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. And then—very gently—I reach out and slide a single curl away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
Her skin is warm. Her pulse, steady.
“You’ve always been mine,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. My knuckles graze her jaw. “I’ve known it my entire life.”
The runner’s high hits full force as I walk back into the kitchen, muscles loose, lungs still burning in that good, clean way. But nothing—not the adrenaline, not the rush of pavement under my feet—feels as good as the sight of Lily.
She’s standing at the island, wearing a loose tank top and baggy sweatpants, absolutely covered in flour as she kneads biscuit dough with quiet focus. The kitchen smells of blueberries and butter. Her curls are a little frizzy, her cheeks dusted white, and there's something almost domestic about the whole scene that makes me want to pull her against me and kiss her, or smack her plump little ass as she wiggles around, really kneading that dough.
I stroll over to the fruit bowl, deliberately stepping into her line of sight, and grab a red apple. I’m still shirtless, damp with sweat, and I know that normally when I look like this she gets flustered and is more likely to accidentally tell me the truth as she rambles.
The tips of her ears turn an adorable shade of pink, and her back straightens the minute she sees me. She pushes harder at the dough and whistles, trying to act like she doesn’t see me. I snort and move right behind her, leaning against the island while she works at the counter, right next to the double decker oven.
I take a hefty bite of my apple, and cross my arms over my chest. “Good Morning, Lily.”
She clears her throat, and begins to slow down her kneading, “Morning Alek! How was your morning run?”
Her voice is more chipper than normal, and she turns around to look at me, running her forearm over her head and leaving a thick line of flour over her forehead.
“Pleasant,” I reply, biting into my apple with pointed ease, watching the way her eyes flick away from mine. “Helps when I don’t get much sleep.”
“Oh.” She brushes past me, grabbing the dough cutter from the drawer by my side, her arm barely grazing mine. Then she rushes back across the kitchen like the floor might give out beneath her.
“What time did you go to bed?” she asks, tone light, almost distracted.
“We didn’t go to sleep until after we finished planning the wedding,” I say, letting the words land with weight as I finish the last bite of my apple. Her back snaps straight, her hands suddenly busy cutting the dough like it’s urgent.
She laughs a little too loudly and moves toward the stove, where blueberries simmer in a small pot. The smell hits me—sweet andwarm, with a hint of lemon—and I watch her stir it, one hand on her hip like she needs to ground herself.
“I thought I dreamed that,” she says without turning.
I raise an eyebrow and cross the kitchen, tossing the apple core into the trash. “You dream of marrying me?”
“I—no, I meant—I thought I dreamed the conversation. About the wedding. Not the—” Her voice trips over itself, and she clears her throat, clicks off the burner, then turns to face me. But she won’t look at me. Her eyes are all over the room. The floor. The ceiling. Her hands twist together like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “Not that it would beterribleto marry you. I think you’d be a great husband. One day. You know. To a girl you love.”
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms, not bothering to hide the amusement in my expression.
“You think I’ll be a great husband?” I repeat, slower, like I’m tasting the words.
She shakes her head, groaning softly, and turns the oven on to preheat, before turning back to the island like she can knead her way out of this conversation. Her hands press hard into the dough, her back to me, curls bouncing as she moves.
“To a girl I love,” I echo. “And what if I already do?”
She scoffs under her breath, grabbing the rolling pin and flattening the dough in front of her. “Aleksandr, you love me like asister, and that is… fine,” she mutters, like saying it aloud might make it true. “I mean, I’ll help. Iwantto help. I love you and Nadia and Nik. I would never let anything happen to you, soif we’re married for a year and a half, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover every day!”
“We never had sleepovers,” I say flatly.
“Well,” she chirps, too fast, too loud, “firsts for everything!”
“Lily—”
She grabs the biscuit cutter and begins stamping perfect circles into the dough like she’s in a baking competition, like this is the only thing that matters in the world right now.
“As long as you’re not a snorer,” she rambles.
