“What’s your middle name?” he mumbles over his bites.
I almost laugh. I take a bite of toast.
I pause.
What if he figures out who I am if I tell him?
“Leyla,” I mutter.
His fork stops mid-air. “Ayla Leyla?” He smirks.
“Don’t make fun of me!”
“I’m—I’m not, just cute. It rhymes.”
Cute.
“So? What’s yours?”
He doesn’t answer.
The smirk fades first. His fork lowers to the plate with a soft clink. For a second, I think he didn’t hear me.
Then I see it.
Not true anger, but something like it in his eyes.
His shoulders go still. Too still. Like something locked into place under his skin.
He wipes his mouth with the napkin by his plate, buying himself a second.
“Why?” he asks.
The word isn’t sharp.
It’s flat.
“Because you asked mine.”
Silence stretches.
He looks at me like I’ve just asked him for something dangerous. Like names are weapons and I don’t know how to use one properly.
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“Nikolai.”
It sounds dragged out of him.
Not offered.
Scraped.
“Nikolai,” I repeat.
I don’t mean to soften it. I don’t mean to test it in my mouth. But it slips out.
And something shifts.
