“Yes,” I say. The answer comes out quickly and easily. Niko’s eyes flick up at my reply.
Cassie nods once. “Good.” She doesn’t push further and doesn’t ask for any other details. “He makes you less...” she searches for the word, then smiles faintly, “...knife-like.”
“I am not knife-like.”
Niko snorts, and Cassie shakes her head at both of us. “I just mean you’ve seemed lighter lately.” That surprises me enough that I don’t answer immediately.
“I have not,” I say eventually.
“You have, the few times I’ve seen you anyway,” she replies gently. “It’s not a bad thing.” There’s something steady in her gaze, and for a moment — just one moment — I believe it. I believe she’s getting better.
Vladimir lets out a sharp cry that cuts through the room out of frustration — his spoon is gone again.
Cassie turns to him immediately, standing and scooping him up when his lower lip trembles. “I know,” she murmurs softly into his hair. “I know. That’s upsetting, isn’t it?” Her voice is warm, and she sways slightly without thinking while she comforts him.
Then her body goes rigid for a second, her eyes don’t track anything in the room, and her mouth moves ever so slightly on a whisper.
Niko doesn’t notice; he’s bent over the floor, retrieving the spoon again.
But I do.
She blinks, and the tension vanishes. She presses her cheek against Vladimir’s head and exhales as if nothing happened. “You’re dramatic,” she tells him softly. He giggles, she sits back down, and the conversation resumes.
Niko starts telling a story about one of the recruits nearly concussing himself on a doorframe. Cassie laughs in the right places, but I can’t stop watching her. She looks better, but that doesn’t mean she is.
Dinner stretches longer than I expected. Vladimir eventually loses the fight with exhaustion. His eyelids droop mid-protest with his mouth still slightly open like he’s outraged at the betrayal of sleep. Cassie scoops him up and carries him to the bedroom, while Niko clears plates with exaggerated competence.
Cassie disappears into the kitchen afterwards, despite Niko telling her to leave the dishes, and tells him to “stop being a nagging wife” when he tries to follow her in.
I can still hear them bickering faintly while I move into the living room.
A few minutes later, Niko drops onto the sofa beside me with a tired groan, rubbing a hand over his face before stretching his legs out in front of him. I lean forward eventually, resting my forearms on my knees. “I need to take some leave,” I say.
“You?” he asks, his head turning slowly. “You don’t even take sick days.” There’s no mockery in his tone, only surprise.
“I’m fully aware.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Alright. For what?”
“I want to see Caiden.”
“We’ve talked about this Ari,” he says, calmly. “You can’t go to the UK. That’s not just paperwork. It’s a dozen people who’d notice you landing in Heathrow and start asking why.”
“I know, I’m not stupid, Niko.”
“I didn’t say you were.” He leans back slightly, thinking. “Where were you planning on going then?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
That makes him blink. “You don’t know?”
“I know I need to leave here for a few days,” I say. “I don’t know where. Somewhere close to him. Do you have any ideas?”
He exhales slowly, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip while he thinks. “Western Europe is easier,” he says after a moment. “Neutral. Somewhere neither of you belongs. That way, nobody can frame it as coordination.”
“That makes sense.”
“France is awkward at the moment. Germany’s fine, but too official if someone looks closely.” His eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen. “Amsterdam,” he says finally. “It’s common,” he adds. “No one cares who goes to Amsterdam. Flights are routine, and it’s close enough you can be back in under a day if you have to.”
