Four seconds. Five. Color rose in her cheeks, and she turned back to the counter. “Sit down, Pav. Food’s almost ready.”
Katya laid the table with mismatched bowls and rye bread as Pav took a seat. The chair creaked under his weight, and the cat opened one eye to a narrow slit of yellow, then closed it again. The table was scarred oak, worn smooth where hands had used it for years.
Harper sat opposite him. Flour smudged her cheekbone. He didn’t say anything.
Katya set a bowl in front of him.
She moved the bread within reach, and the butter beside it, then poured black tea. A large pot of steaming stew followed. Thick and dark, it had cooked long enough to lose its shape and become something else entirely. Root vegetables had collapsed and the meat pulled apart at the touch of his spoon. Garlic. Smoke from the stove permeating everything.
The first mouthful hit harder than he expected. Heat. Salt. Game and dill. Sour cream cut through it and kept it from being heavy.
His eyes closed.
Fuel, yes.
But more than that. A table. Food someone had taken the time to make. People alive around him.
People who mattered.
Across the table, Harper tore bread with her fingers and dipped it into her bowl. She mumbled around a mouthful. “Oh my God. Katya, this issogood.”
“More?” Katya asked, already reaching for the ladle.
“Please.” Harper held out her bowl. “This is incredible.”
“It’s stew.” Katya refilled it. “It’s not complicated.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“You’ve been eating pinecones and snow for days. Your standards are compromised.”
Harper laughed. The sound filled the kitchen, and the cat lifted its head.
He didn’t look.
Didn’t—
He looked.
Just long enough to confirm she was still there. That he wasn’t imagining this.
Harper smiled. “God, if only that wasn’t true.”
Slowly, the conversation became easy. Katya refilled his tea without asking.
“You two worked together?” Harper asked, tearing more bread apart.
“Briefly.” Katya glanced at Pav. “He was young and I was competent. The usual arrangement.”
“Katya was the best marksman I ever worked with,” Pav said. “She won’t tell you that.”
“Markswoman,” Katya corrected without looking up.
Harper’s eyebrows rose. “You were a sniper?”
“I was many things.” Katya chewed on a crust. “Now I bake bread and argue with the electricity company. Life is strange.”
“She could hit a target at eight hundred meters in a crosswind,” Pav said. “Still can, probably.”
