"Of course. They’re bringing me food, and I don’t have to cook. Tip them whatever the hell you want."
I like that.
I tip big and hand him the phone back.
He opens a door at the very end of the hall. “And this room here, it’s?—"
He stops. I do too. Instead of moving forward, I stare.
Inside, the walls are lined with shelves. Books—old, worn, their spines cracked with use. It smells of varnished wood and aged paper.
A framed quote hangs over the desk.
"Even in the grave, all is not lost."
I freeze.
"Edgar Allan Poe?" My voice comes out soft.
Matvei shrugs, but there’s something guarded in the set of his jaw. "Yeah. So?"
I stare at him, heart racing. "You know I like Poe."
His head tilts. He doesn’t respond. Did he put this here for me? Or…
My skin crawls, that familiar flash ofhow long has he been watching mebubbling up. Of course he knows. Of course he’s been in my shit.
Except—
I haven’t read Poe in years.
Years.
But when I did, I didn’t just read, Iconsumed.Memorized. It was all I read because, for the first time in my life, I felt seen. Someone else understood the complex emotions of being human, of wanting to live and sometimes hating every second.
But how would he know?
I didn’t leave that trail for him to follow. I didn’t post it, didn’t leave a book lying around, barely thought about it… until right now.
"So how did you know?" I whisper.
His eyes darken. "I didn’t. Are you giving me shit?”
I shake my head.
We stare at each other, and the air between us shifts. Not just hunger. Something stranger. Older.
"Maybe you’ve been stalkingme," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
My breath catches. “Is that a joke?” I laugh to cover the way my pulse spikes. "You wish."
But my hands tremble when I touch the book lying on the desk. My fingerprints have never been on this one—but it still feels like it’s mine.
Or his.
Or ours.
“And so being young and dipped in folly…” My voice trails off.
