Page 78 of Hold the Line

I press my forehead to his, breathing him in. “Good boy,” I murmur softly. “Let’s go inside.”

We get out of the car, and I take Cole’s hand firmly in mine and guide him inside the small, warm restaurant. The familiar smell of borscht, fresh bread, and grilled meats hits us immediately. It is quiet tonight — only a few tables occupied. I lead him to my usual booth in the corner with a nice view of the snowy street outside and gently push him into the seat.

The waitress — the same older woman who has served me for years — comes over with a kind smile.

“The usual?” she asks in Russian.

I nod. “Yes. But two portions.”

She glances at Cole with mild curiosity but says nothing and walks away. Cole stares after her, then turns those wide eyes back to me.

“What is… the usual?” he asks, his voice still a little shaky but genuinely curious now.

I reach across the table and take his hand again, stroking over his knuckles. “Borscht. Pelmeni. Some grilled meat and potatoes. Black tea. The things my mother used to make when she was happy. Nothing fancy. Just… home.”

Cole stares at me for a long moment, processing. The tears have dried but his eyes are still red-rimmed. He squeezes my hand back, small and tentative, like he is slowly coming back to himself.

The waitress returns with tea and bread, and for the first time in weeks Cole actually looks like he might eat something without me having to force the issue.

Cole takes a cautious sip of the strong black tea and his face scrunches up immediately — nose wrinkled, eyes squinting, mouth pulling into the most dramatic pout I have ever seen. It is so unexpectedly adorable that I cannot help the low chuckle that escapes me.

I flag the waitress down again and order him something milder — a sweeter fruit tea with honey. When she leaves, Cole stares at his cup like it personally betrayed him.

“How can you drink thiiis??” he whines, his voice pitching high and dramatic in that way that always makes my chest feel too full.

I actually laugh — a real, surprised sound that echoes softly in the quiet restaurant. Cole’s cheeks flush pink instantly and he huffs, crossing his arms and sinking a little lower in the booth.

“It is not that bad,” I say, still smiling as I reach across the table to take his hand again. “You will get used to it. Or not. The fruit tea will be better for you.”

He huffs again but does not pull his hand away. The blush stays on his cheeks, and for the first time in weeks he looks a little more like my Cole — dramatic, whiny, alive — instead of the anxious ghost who has been hiding in our house.

The food arrives shortly after, steaming and comforting, and I watch him carefully as he takes the first tentative bite.

Cole takes his first real bite of the borscht and moans — completely unashamed. Then he starts shoveling food into his mouth like someone is going to take the plate away from him at any second, barely chewing before the next spoonful.

“Slow down, magpie,” I chuckle, watching him with a fond smile I cannot hide.

He tries to answer with his mouth full, words completely muffled and garbled. “’S so good — fuck, why didn’t you bring me here sooner—”

I can barely understand a word, but the pure enthusiasm, the way his eyes light up with every bite, the little happy noises he keeps making between mouthfuls — it is the most alive I have seen him in weeks. I reach across the table and gently wipe a bit of broth from the corner of his mouth with my thumb.

He pauses just long enough to give me a sheepish little grin, cheeks still stuffed, before diving back in. The fear is still there, lingering in the back of his eyes, but right now the food is winning.

It’s the end of March and Viktor’s birthday.

Usually Viktor doesn’t celebrate his birthday at all — he treats it like any other day, quiet and low-key, which is exactly why the entire team looked so confused when I called everyone over to his place for a barbecue. I wore him down. Slowly. With lots of whining, kissing, and promises that it would just be the team and nothing crazy. He finally gave in with a long-suffering sigh and a kiss to my forehead that said he was only doing it for me.

Unfortunately for him, I know nothing about barbecues.

Thankfully Mats is a master at them. As much as I still glare at him every time I remember him coming out of that bedroom with my sister on New Year’s — Lena is here now, glued to his side and laughing like an idiot at whatever that fucker is saying — I asked him to take care of the grill. He’s been out there flipping burgers and looking way too pleased with himself.

“You good, Hollywood?” Damian appears out of fucking nowhere, startling me a little.

“Huh?” I ask, blinking up at him.

“You’ve been staring into the fire for the past ten minutes without moving,” Damian says, cane planted beside him.

I look up at him and narrow my eyes. It’s impossible this man doesn’t know what Viktor did. “Coach…” I start.