A corner of his mouth lifts. “Well,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you must really love me.” I don’t answer with words; I kiss him instead. “Such a dangerous thing to do,” he murmurs.
“Reading poetry?”
“Remembering things about me,” he says. “That’s how people get ideas.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “What kind?” He leans in and presses his forehead to mine.
“Domestic ones,” he says, and I laugh quietly, because that’s safer than admitting what that word does to me. Ari doesn’t move for a bit after that, and neither do I. We’re still stretched out on the rug, the fire ticking softly beside us, the book still in my hands. Then he gets up, reaches out, and pulls me to my feet. “Come on,” he says. “Bed.”
I glance at the fire. “We just got horizontal.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “And now I want to be horizontalcomfortably.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, letting him drag me up half-laughing, stumbling across the floor to the bed. He sits with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out, and taps the space between them. I slide in between his legs, resting my back against his chest.
“Give me that,” he says, nodding at the book.
I hand it over with exaggerated caution. “If this ends with you critiquing my accent, I’m leaving.”
He flips through the pages without looking at me. “You won’t leave.” He finds the place quickly — too quickly —and starts reading in English. He reads like he’s dismantling something delicate to see how it works, his voice low and steady, the meaning intact but missing the edge that makes itbite. I listen for about ten seconds before I reach up and shut the book.
“No.”
“No?” he asks, looking down at me, his eyebrow lifting.
“Not like that,” I say. “You sound like you’re reading a warning label. Read it in Russian.”
“You’re sure you want to hear me do poetry in bed?” His mouth curves slowly, and he looks dangerous and pleased at the same time.
“Yes.”
“You’re making choices tonight.” He opens the book again. I notice then when he speaks in Russian, it changes his voice — lowers it, roughens the edges, gives the words gravel instead of polish. The consonants scrape, the vowels stretch, and his chest vibrates under my back with each line. I don’t need to understand it to feel every word of it.
He finishes and closes the book quietly. “That is significantly better,” I tell him.
He snorts. “Of course you’d say that.”
“I’m right,” I add.
“You’re biased.”
“So are you.” His arms tighten suddenly, pulling me in against his chest harder, his chin dropping to my shoulder.
“You know,” he murmurs, “this is the place I realised.”
I tilt my head. “Realised what?”
“That I was already in love with you.”
“Well,” I say quietly, “excellent venue choice.”
He hums, amused, and kisses the side of my head. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Read me another,” he says, nudging the book back toward me.
“In English?” I reply, raising a brow.
