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But more importantly, I’m afraid for Nikolai.

That evening, after closing, Grisha is waiting for me as usual. I swallow my disappointment when I get into the car and fasten my safety belt. There’s a slice of honey cake wrapped in greaseproof paper in my bag, the end that I usually save for myself, and I know exactly what I’m going to do with it.

When Nikolai opens the door to the empty unit on the floor below his apartment, he’s in his T-shirt and shorts. Behind him is a card table with a lamp on it, a folding chair, a single mattress on the floor with one blanket folded at the foot, and a gym bag. His eyes are bloodshot, the stubble on his chin thicker and darker than normal.

I hold out the honey cake like a peace offering. “The end,” I say.

He takes it in both hands with more care than its weight requires. His smile lights up his eyes, and my body tingles the way it always does when he looks at me this way. The way it has been tingling since I held a folded towel over the wound in his side and told him to keep talking.

“Thank you.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps back to let me in, and we stand in front of the closed door, gravitating towards each other like magnets.

“I didn’t know,” I say. “That you were sleeping on a mattress on the floor.”

He peers around the room and shrugs. “It’s somewhere to sleep.”

“Nikolai…” I drag my teeth across my bottom lip.

I came here to apologize for alerting Daniel, for banishing Nikolai from his own apartment, for getting angry when all he was trying to do was keep me safe. But I sense that he doesn’t want or need an apology.

“After my mother died, I lived in other people’s apartments,” he says before I can speak. “A cousin. A man my father knew. Whoever had a couch. Every few months, they would need the couch back, so everything I owned had to fit in one bag. I slept with my arm through the strap, so nobody would take it while I was asleep.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine. Ten.”

My heart aches at the thought of nine-year-old Nikolai sofa-surfing because he had no place to call home. It should never happen to anyone, but especially not to a child.

“Come upstairs.” I slip my hand into his.

He puts his arms around me still holding the slice of honey cake, and I listen to his heartbeat while he breathes into my hair.

“I missed you,” I murmur.

His hands spread between my shoulder blades. “I missed you too.”

I kiss him first, standing on tiptoes, my body pressed against his, and it feels like kissing him for the first time all over again.

Upstairs, I don’t turn on the lights; the kitchen window lets in enough from the street. I lead him into his own bedroom, and when I turn around he’s right behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through my sweater.

He folds me into his arms and kisses me slow and deep, one hand on the small of my back, the other fisting my hair. I kiss him back, my hands tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, strange whimpering sounds escaping my lips as I pull away far enough to lift it over his head. The scar is a pale seam in the twilight and I dip my head to kiss the tip.

“This is a part of our story,” I whisper.

“Our story?” He tilts my chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me what happens next.”

“Your mouth,” I say, removing my sweater and shirt. “Here.” I touch my own throat. “Then down.”

His mouth warms my throat as his fingers find the clasp of my bra and unhook it. I tip my head back, and he takes his time at the hollow of my collarbone before moving lower. His stubble scrapes my breast as he sucks my nipple, and I bury my fingers in his hair, pulling him against me harder.

He must sense my urgency. On his knees, he kisses down my stomach, unzipping my trousers and tugging them over my hips with my panties. His mouth finds the mound between my legs, sucking until I feel the sting, and I study the trail of marks he leaves behind while my clit starts to throb.

He peers up at me, the tip of his tongue hovering between my legs. “What do you want me to do, pchelka?”

“Lick me.” My voice is husky.