His fingers tightened on my waist, and for a second I thought he might actually take me up on it, but the rattle of footsteps on the floor above killed the moment. Someone was moving around up there. Aleksey exhaled through his nose and loosened his grip, his forehead still pressed to mine.
“Come on,” he said. “Mama’s been cooking all day.”
He didn’t drop his arm from my shoulders as we climbed the narrow stairs, causing the heat of him to press into my side with every step.
The apartment door swung open onto chaos.
Cardboard boxes were stacked against the walls, half-taped and leaning, the late afternoon sun cutting through a single window to light up the dust hanging in the air. The space was tiny, cluttered with a life being packed into boxes, butthe linoleum floors had been scrubbed to a dull shine and the counters held nothing but a pot bubbling on a stove too small for it.
A woman stood in the middle of it, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she turned toward the door. She had the same dark brown eyes as Aleksey, and they watched me with the kind of stillness that seemed to come from decades of learning to read people fast.
“Mama,” Aleksey said, his arm still resting across my shoulders. “This is Karter.”
She set the towel down. “So you are the Karter I have heard so much about.” Her accent curled around the words, warm but careful.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. Zotova.”
She waved me off. “No, call me Alya.” She didn’t step forward for a hug. Instead, her gaze tracked from my face to my hands to the way I stood in her doorway, and whatever she was looking for, she hadn’t decided if I had it yet.
A half-taped box sat on the floor beside a tape dispenser. I could stand there and let her keep sizing me up, or I could make myself useful. Aleksey had already moved past me, hauling a crate onto the counter, his forearms flexing under the weight. So, I grabbed the dispenser and ran a strip of tape across the cardboard seam.
Alya’s hand stilled on the dish towel. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”
“He doesn’t know how to sit still,” Aleksey said, not turning around. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”
“Pretty sure you gave up after ten minutes.” I picked up the box and scanned the stack by the door. “Where does this one go?”
“Next to the door,” Alya said, but the purse of her lips had loosened. A beat passed while she watched me set the box downand straighten back up. Then she waved the dish towel toward the kitchen table. “Enough. The food is ready. Both of you, wash your hands.”
We sat at a small table crammed into the corner of the kitchen. Alya ladled out three bowls of stew, steam curling up between us. The broth was deep red, rich with paprika and tender chunks of beef that had been simmering long enough to fall apart under my spoon. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the first bite hit my tongue.
“This is incredible,” I said, and meant it.
Alya paused, her spoon halfway to her mouth. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she smoothed it away, but the faint flush at her collar gave her away. “It’s just stew. Old recipe.”
“Best stew I’ve had in months. The dining hall food they served back at Ridge Cross is practically a war crime.”
Aleksey snorted into his bowl. “He’s not wrong.”
She waved a hand at both of us, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Eat more. You two talk too much.”
I took another spoonful, letting the heat settle. Alya paused to give me another once-over, then aimed her spoon at me. “So, Karter. Your parents. They know you’re here in Detroit?”
“My mom does.” I tore a piece of bread in half, the crust cracking under my fingers. “We talked on the drive up. She wants to visit me this fall. Just the two of us.”
Alya’s spoon paused midair. Something flickered in her expression, approval maybe, before she aimed it again. “And your father?”
Aleksey’s knee bumped mine under the table, a quiet check-in. I kept my eyes on my bowl.
“He isn’t talking to me.”
Alya waited, her spoon still raised. The silence stretched until I looked up.
“Why?” she asked.
I shrugged, the motion tight. “Because I didn’t do what he wanted. And because I’m sitting here with Aleksey.”
Aleksey’s hand shifted on the table, his fingers brushing the edge of my bowl before he pulled back. Alya set her spoon down with a deliberate clink and reached across the table, covering my hand with hers.
