Page 69 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I catch the shift. He clearly doesn’t want to dig into his past. And I won’t make him. Sad memories like that don’t need prodding. He’ll tell me more when he’s ready.

“So… no soup?” he asks, glancing back at me with a faint, forced lightness.

I shake my head. “Honestly, I don’t even remember what it tasted like last night. I just… don’t want soup.”

He studies me for a beat, then the corner of his mouth quirks. “Pancakes and hot cocoa?”

My smile comes easy this time. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

“Coming right up.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands, and reaches for his trousers, neatly folded on the chair beside my clothes.

“How did we end up naked?”

He pulls them on, zips up, and smiles. “You were shivering so badly that night, so I figured you needed body heat to warm you up.”

“Oh.” I remember hearing him say that.

“And it worked.” He leans down, kisses my forehead, and heads for the door without a shirt, broad tattooed back flexing as he moves.

The second he’s gone, I push myself up, legs shaky but steadier than before, and pad to the bathroom. After I relieve myself, I finally brave the mirror.

I wince at my reflection. My hair is a wild halo of tangles, face pale and splotchy, eyes puffy, lips chapped. This is what I looked like the whole time he was here? God.

I grab the comb from the drawer, yank it through the knots until my scalp protests, then twist everything into a messy bun. Brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face. I’m still a mess, but at least I don’t look like I’ve been dragged through hell.

Back in bed, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a string of texts and missed calls from Tasha and Leonid.

Hey girl, you okay? Haven’t heard from you since yesterday. Laurel? Call me when you can. Worried.

I send a quick text to Tasha: I’m fine. Just had a nasty fever. Leonid’s here taking care of me. I’ll call you later.

Not long after I hit send on the text to Tasha, the bedroom door opens. Leonid walks in carrying a tray, looking unfairly good in just his trousers, bare chest, and tousled hair.

I push myself up, resting my back against the headboard, pillows propped behind me.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, sets the tray carefully across my lap, and straightens. “Eat slowly,” he says, voice low. “Don’t want you getting sick again.”

“Thank you,” I murmur.

I lift the cover off the plate.

Chocolate pancakes, thick, fluffy, still steaming, are stacked neatly. And right beside them, drizzled in thick chocolate syrup across the white porcelain, the words:

Be my girlfriend?

I smile, eyes flying up to his face.

He’s watching me, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one eyebrow raised like he’s waiting for an answer he already knows.

“So?” he prompts.

I bite my lip, fighting the ridiculous grin that wants to take over my whole face. “Well… since you asked so nicely…”

He growls low in his throat. “Ever so cheeky, aren’t you, solnyshko?”

I can’t help it. The smile breaks free. Him here, taking care of me, making me breakfast, spelling out the question like some adorable, overgrown romantic—it’s too much. Sweet. Everything I didn’t know I needed.

My heart squeezes hard, words tumbling out before I can catch them. “I love you.”