“We’ve got all our stuff here.”
“Most of your stuff is baby blankets and unpaid stress.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She pushes her chair back a little and wipes her face. “I can’t have everyone looking at me.”
“Nobody has time to look at you. They’re all busy ruining their own lives.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“It is a little.”
She exhales hard through her nose, halfway between anger and reluctant amusement. Then she goes quiet again and looks over at Vladimir in his cot. “I don’t want Niko to think I can’t cope.”
I lean back. “I suspect Niko already knows you can’t cope.” The words are blunt, but I keep my voice level. “That doesn’t mean he thinks less of you. It means he has eyes.”
“He’ll worry if I move there.”
“He’s already worried.”
She rubs her thumb against the ceramic mug, thinking. I can almost see the argument taking place in her head, every practical objection lined up against the simple fact that she is tired enough to know I am right. “I don’t want people taking Vladimir away from me,” she says at last.
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if anyone tries, they deal with me first.”
One brow lifts faintly. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs. “If I say yes,” she says slowly, “I’m not going today.”
“I didn’t say today.”
“You’ll tell Niko.”
“I will.”
“I need to pack properly.”
“Fine.”
“And I want it to be because I agreed, not because I was told.”
“I’m asking, Cassie. Not ordering. But I am asking seriously.”
She looks toward the window, then the cot, then back at me. When she speaks, her voice is thin with exhaustion but steady. “Okay.”
Relief moves through me so fast it almost makes me stupid. I sit back before it shows too plainly and nod once. “Good.” She lets out a shaky breath, as if saying it aloud has taken more out of her than the crying did. “I’ll arrange it,” I say. “You can stay here until it’s ready. I’ll sort the housing office, make sure Niko knows what’s happening, and we’ll get you moved without a circus.”
Her eyes close briefly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Government housing has a smell.” She huffs a laugh again. “Have you eaten?” I ask, looking toward the kitchen.
“I had toast this morning.”
“It’s nearly four.”
