I glare at him and his eyes light up.
“Yes. It’s an order.”
Footsteps return. Ayla comes back in, hair slightly mussed like she dragged her fingers through it, eyes alert like she’s counting exits even in a mansion.
Vaska doesn’t hesitate.
“Ayla,” he says, casual. “Maksim wants to know—what’s your favorite flower?”
My eyes snap to him.
What the fuck?
Her eyes land on me. Wide. Caught off guard.
And there it is.
Heat. Sharp and sudden. Up my throat, behind my ears.
Embarrassment.
It hits like a slap because it’s new. Because it’s weak.
Because I don’t get flustered.
She studies me like she’s trying to decide what this means. Like she’s holding my pulse between her fingers and turning it over.
She frowns.
Like she’s not sure.
Her gaze drifts to the ceiling for a second as if the answer might be written there.
Then she shrugs, simple as breathing. “Dandelions.”
I stare at her.
Dandelions.
Those are… nothing. They die in a day. They’re everywhere. They’re not even flowers, technically—they’re weeds pretending.
But I don’t say it. I don’t react. I just log it. File it away in the same mental drawer where I keep her scars, her laugh, the way she says my name when she’s coming apart. Dandelions. Noted.
Vaska’s grinning now—full, shit-eating grin. “Dandelions. Interesting choice.”
Ayla shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I like them.”
She walks past me, brushing her fingers along my arm on the way, light, deliberate, like she knows exactly what that touch does to me. Then she picks up her fork again, takes another bite of medovik, and hums happily.
I stare at the spot where her fingers touched me.
Vaska clears his throat. “So. Dandelions. You want me to source some, boss? Or are you handling this one yourself?”
I shoot him a look that promises violence later.
He just laughs under his breath.
Ayla looks between us. “What? What did I miss?”
