"Hey." I stand, wipe my hands on the dish towel. "Bad day?"
He doesn't answer. Just crosses the room in four strides, wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my neck.
I hold him. Don't push. Don't ask questions. Just run my fingers through his hair and let him breathe me in, slow and deep.
"Better," he mumbles after a long moment. "Better now."
"Dinner's almost ready."
"I'm not hungry."
"Leonid—"
"Not for food." He lifts his head, and his eyes are dark. Hungry. "I need you."
"Eat first." I cup his face, brush my thumbs over his cheekbones. "Then you can have me for dessert."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens. He's looking at me like—
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He turns his face, presses a kiss to my palm. "Everything. I'll tell you over dinner."
He eats like he hasn't eaten in days.
Two helpings of stroganoff, thick slices of crusty bread to mop up the sauce, half the salad I threw together. I watch him across the table, sipping my wine, a warm glow building in my chest.
"This is incredible," he says around a mouthful. "How did you—"
"Recipe online." I shrug, trying to downplay it. "I know it's probably not like your mother's—"
"You remembered that."
"You mentioned it once."
He sets down his fork. Stares at me with that expression I still can't read.
"I mention a lot of things," he says slowly. "You remember all of them?"
"Most of them." I fidget with my napkin. "The important ones."
"The important ones." He pushes back from the table, rounds it until he's standing in front of me. Pulls me to my feet. "You think my mother's stroganoff recipe is important?"
"It's important to you."
His hands frame my face. Tilt it up so I have to look at him.
"Lily."
"What?"
"I love you."
The words hit me like a punch. Like a blessing. Like everything I've ever wanted to hear and never dared to hope for.
"I love you," he says again. "I've been trying to figure out how to say it for weeks. I'm not good at this—never had to be, never wanted to be—but I can't not say it anymore."
"Leonid—"
