“No, start there,” he says, pointing to another poem. I read it carefully in Russian — I think — keeping my tone dry on purpose and daring him to complain. When I finish, I close the book and look up at him. He pulls me into a proper hug, his arms wrapping around me like it’s instinctive. As if he’s already done this a thousand times in his head. I go easily, pressing my cheek into the crook of his neck.
He sets the book aside, switches off the lamp, and drags the covers up with his foot.
His mouth brushes my temple. “Next time,” he mutters, already half asleep, “I’m making you read the angry one.”
“Thereisno angry one.”
“Everything you say in Russian sounds angry,” he says, smug even half-unconscious.
“Mudak,”Asshole, I laugh quietly and settle in.
TEN
ARSENY
As I open my eyes, my brain does a half-hearted sweep and then stalls, distracted by the warm and solid body pressed against my back. Caiden is sprawled behind me, one arm thrown over my waist, his hand flat against my stomach. His breathing is slow and even, and I lie there, staring at the wall, letting the reality of that sink in.
I shift slightly, testing the perimeter. His arm tightens immediately around me, dragging me back flush against him, his thigh hooking over my knee to pin me in place. “Greedy,” I mutter under my breath.
“Mm,” he answers, asleep enough that it barely qualifies as speech. His nose presses into the back of my neck, and I close my eyes for a few seconds longer.
When I finally extract myself, it’s a slow, careful operation. I peel his arm away inch by inch, replacing myself with a pillow so he doesn’t notice the loss of contact, then rolling out of bed without jostling him.
He frowns faintly, but doesn’t wake up.
I pull on clothes quietly and step outside. The cold hits me like a slap that clears my head properly. The sky is a pale, washed-out winter blue. The snow covers everything in smooth, unbroken lines except for our tracks from yesterday. I breathe the cold in until my lungs burn, trying to take my mind off the fact that this is the last full day.
I don’t say it out loud; I acknowledge it silently. Then I circle the cabin once smoking a cigarette out of habit more than necessity. Everything is quiet. There’s no movement in the trees or sounds of distant engines, only wind through branches and the faint creak of wood.
When I go back inside, Caiden is awake.
He’s sitting up in bed, hair wrecked, blinking at the empty space beside him like he’s briefly offended by my absence. When he sees me, the tension drains from his shoulders so visibly it almost makes me laugh. “There you are,” he says.
“Were you planning to issue a missing persons report?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “With accusations.” I snort and move into the kitchen. He follows, shirtless and barefoot, with no sense of personal space, leaning his weight against my back while I reach for the kettle.
“You escaped,” he accuses mildly.
“I went outside.”
“You left the bed.”
“Tragic.”
He presses his forehead between my shoulder blades. “You could have woken me.”
“You were sleeping,” I say. “I’m not a monster.”
“That’s debatable.” I flick the kettle on and turn just enough to look at him. Then I lean in and kiss him, just to shut him up. It works — of course — he makes a quiet, pleased sound and steals another before I can pull away.
Breakfast happens without discussion. Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee strong enough to be an act of violence. After, he pulls on layers and looks at me expectantly. “So...”
“So,” I echo.
“What are we doing today?”
I consider that because there are a hundred answers and none of them lasts long enough. “Out,” I decide. “Before we start pacing.”
