His face changes in alarm. “Anya.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re painting a nursery.”
He looks at the wall, then back at me, as if trying to understand whether this is a complaint. “I can hire someone.”
“No.” I wipe at my face. “Don’t you dare.”
He goes still.
I step closer to the painted wall and touch it lightly with my fingertips. The paint is dry enough not to mark me. “When did you start?”
“The night after you told me.”
Something warm and painful blooms in my chest.
“What made you choose green?”
“Buran likes the fields in spring.”
I turn slowly. He looks at me with perfect seriousness. For a second, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry harder.
Both happen.
A small laugh breaks through the tears, and then I’m crying again, and Yaromir looks increasingly displeased with the entire situation.
“I thought it was neutral,” he says.
“It is.”
“Then why are you crying more?”
“Because you chose the color based on your horse.”
“He has good taste.”
I press a hand over my mouth.
He steps closer, cautious now, as if tears are more dangerous than bullets. “Anya.”
I turn and go to him. He catches me immediately, careful of my side, one hand at my back, the other behind my head. I press my face into his chest and breathe him in.
Home. That’s what he smells like now.
Not safety exactly. Yaromir will never be soft enough to mean safety in the simple way.
But home. A dangerous, scarred, impossible home.
“I love it,” I say into his shirt.
His hand stills. Then moves gently over my hair.
