Maksim’s gaze holds mine like he wants to win this with force and can’t.
“Ayla,”he says, low, almost pained. “Don’t do that.”
I tilt my head. “Don’t do what?”
“I’m taking you out.”
I frown. “Out?”
“On a date.”
“Date?”
“Ayla.” He gestures at me, then himself, like he’s explaining a plan he doesn’t fully understand. “That’s why you’re wearing the dress. That’s why I’m in this.”
I glance down at the purple silk again. My heart trips like an idiot.
“Where the hell are we going that we need to be dressed like this?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, the motion rough, like he wants to sand the feeling off his skin. “Somewhere nice.”
Nice sounds wrong coming from him. Like it scrapes his throat on the way out.
“Nice,” I echo, because I can’t help it.
He watches me with those icy, unreadable eyes—the ones that usually promise violence or possession.
Right now they look… uncertain. Like he’s bracing for me to laugh.
I clutch the dandelions tighter. One petal shakes loose and drifts to the floor between us.
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, and reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my cheek, warm, callused.
“I’m trying,” he says, quieter than I’ve ever heard him. “To do something… normal.”
Normal.
The word hangs there, absurd and fragile.
I swallow. My throat feels tight.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath.
Then he offers his arm. Formal. Almost ridiculous coming from him.
“Come on, Beda. Before I change my mind and burn the dress.”
I hesitate. Just a second.
Then I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. His arm is solid, warm through the fabric. Steady.
The heels click against the tile as we walk toward the door.
I’m still holding the dandelions. Yellow. Alive.
And somehow, mine.
