“Zlatooo,” he drawls, relief pouring out of him. “There you are. Thought you’d ghosted Prague for good.”
“I live here,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
He leans closer, peering through the gap like we’re sharing a secret. “I came to talk,” he says. “To apologize. To give you what I owe. Can I come in? I’m freezing.”
The old reflex pops up—make it easy, don’t be rude. I look at him again. Glassy eyes, pink cheeks, swaying, yes. But not raging, not shouting. Just… sloppy.
I sigh and slide the chain off. “Five minutes,” I say. “Then I’m going back to my evening.”
He grins like he’s won something. “Perfect,” he says, and nudges the door wider with his foot as I step back.
Cold air and the sharp, sour smell of alcohol spill in with him as he stumbles across the threshold. He shrugs off his scarf and drops it on the radiator like muscle memory, toeing his shoes halfway off without using his hands. His jacket ends up on the back of a chair. It’s unnerving how efficiently his body takes over the space I live in.
“You look amazing,” he says, turning back to me, eyes sweeping from my sweater to my bare feet. “Better than ever. I missed you.”
“Okay,” I say, because I have no idea what else to do with that. “Do you want water?”
He laughs. “Always the hostess,” he says. “No, I’m fine.” He wanders into the living room like it’s his, glancing at the TV. “Of course,” he snorts. “Ski races.”
“It’s Saalbach,” I say automatically. “Last GS before the Finals.”
He drops onto the end of the couch, sprawling. “You and your gates,” he says, shaking his head. “Come sit. I didn’t come to fight.”
I stay standing, the coffee table between us. I will not be ordered around in my own living room. “So why did you come?”
He lets his head tip back against the cushions, eyes half-closing. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About us. About how I… messed up. I wanted to say sorry. Properly. Not in some stupid text.”
It would have knocked me over a year ago. Now it lands and doesn’t quite penetrate. I fold my arms.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Thank you for saying it.”
His eyes snap open, like he didn’t expect it to be that easy. “That’s it?” he asks. “No yelling? No tears?”
“I’ve done plenty of both over the years,” I answer. “They didn’t change much.”
He watches me for a long moment, trying to locate the old Zlata inside this one. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them.
“We were perfect together,” he says, softer now. “You remember? Parties, trips, every other couple wanting to be like us. You in that red dress on New Year’s Eve, fuck.” He shakeshis head, smiling at the memory. “Nobody looked like you; everybody envied me.”
Something in my chest tightens, but it’s nostalgia, not longing. “People liked the picture,” I say. “That doesn’t mean we were good for each other.”
He frowns. “You make it sound like I was some monster.”
“I didn’t say that. And I don’t think you’re a monster,” I say. “I think we were a bad mix. For me, at least.”
He lets that sit, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He’s waiting for me to soften it, throw in a joke at my own expense. I don’t.
“So what,” he says eventually, the edge creeping in. “You’re too good for me now? Little Zlata grew a spine and decided she’s above the stupid DJ?”
“I didn’t say that,” I reply. “I’m saying I don’t want to be with you. That’s different.”
His mouth twists. “Since when do you talk like that?” he scoffs. “‘Different,’ ‘bad mix.’ Therapist vocabulary.”
“Yes,” I say. “My therapist’s good.”
He barks a humorless laugh. “Right. How much are you paying her to tell you I’m the villain?”
“She’s not telling me anything,” I say. “She’s asking questions. I’m the one answering.”
