Ivan hit the wall with his shoulder on the first turn. "Christ. Did they build this place to house dolls?"
"It’s cozy," Maeve said, without looking back.
"Cozy is what people say when a room is trying to strangle them."
“Cozy is where people live who don’t have lots of zeros at the end of their bank balance.”
Artem said nothing. He stared at her like he was afraid she might disappear if he blinked. Reasonable concern. I knew how he ticked. He was going over the nine months of dead ends, the bribes, flights, and bad tempers, and now the missing omega was three steps ahead of us and pregnant with our child.
“These steps are one hard sneeze away from collapse,” Ivan added.
“You’re being dramatic,” she retorted.
At the top, Maeve pushed the door, it creaked open, and Fergus marched in first because apparently he was responsible for security. We followed and discovered the flat was even smaller than it had looked from outside, which felt almost ambitious. One bed in the corner. One sofa that was so old it had seen empires rise and fall. A kitchenette barely large enough for a kettle and a mug at the same time.
Ivan lowered himself onto the sofa, and it objected violently. He swore and lurched to his feet. A spring stood up proud in the center. "What the hell is this?"
"Vintage," Maeve said.
"It’s deadly," Ivan corrected.
“Still being dramatic.”
Artem ignored the sofa, Ivan, and possibly gravity. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around at the crooked bookshelf. At the single mug in the sink. And then his gaze lingered on the baby clothes folded in careful little stacks on a box.
I was too busy looking at the half-built cot in the corner with the instructions spread beside it like a formal surrender when he finally murmured. His throat moved once. Twice. Nothing more came out. For a man who could stare down gunrunnersbefore breakfast and customs officials before lunch, he looked completely unarmed.
Maeve noticed. Of course she noticed. She crossed her arms over the curve of her stomach and gave a long-suffering sigh that suggested this entire catastrophe had now been accepted as part of her weekly routine. "Sit down. If you can find somewhere that isn’t offensive."
Ivan folded himself onto the floor. "This works."
Artem still didn’t move. His hands flexed once at his sides as he stared at the cot, like he wanted to touch everything and was afraid he had not earned the right.
Maeve turned to the tiny fridge, took out a box of eggs and started cracking them into a pan on the small stove with enough force to suggest the eggs had personally betrayed her. "It’s late, I assume you’re all staying for dinner."
"We’re not leaving," Artem said. His voice came out rough, scraped raw.
She didn’t turn. "I didn’t ask you to."
Ivan grinned. "Very romantic. Practically a proposal."
I stayed by the door and did what I always did in a new space. Count exits. Note blind spots. Check sightlines. The hallway outside. The only fire escape being the window. The weak point in the lock. Old habits had bone-deep roots. If this had been a job, I would already have had three contingency plans and a preferred line of retreat. But it wasn’t a job. It was her. Our mate. This was worse.
Maeve slid the omelette onto a plate and split it like someone used to making food stretch farther than it should. She handed the first portion to Ivan because he was closest to her. He accepted it as if she gave him the holy grail.
The second she offered to Artem. He stared at the plate. Then at her. Then at the plate again, as if she had handed him a live explosive and expected gratitude.
"Eat," she said. “I’m not trying to poison you.”
When Artem took it their fingers brushed, and his breath caught so sharply even Fergus’s ears twitched. Artem dropped onto the bed. Fergus studied him for a moment, then climbed straight into his lap like he had made an executive decision on the matter.
Artem froze, plate in hand, as if the dog were a bomb with fur.
Maeve’s mouth twitched.
Maeve handed me the last plate. “Thank you,” I said as I took it and leaned against the wall.
Ivan was halfway through his share before the rest of us had properly begun. He pointed his fork at Maeve. "Terrible hosting. No wine. No caviar. No linen napkins. I don’t know how you expect a man to live like this."
