After we’ve cleared the plates — him rinsing, me drying — our shoulders bumping together in the cramped space, we gravitate that way. I half-expect dusty military manuals or something equally as grim. Instead, I find a weird mix. There are battered Russian paperbacks, a few English titles, spy novels, some American thrillers, and a copy ofThe Master and Margaritain English and Russian side by side. Then I see a small poetry collection, dog-eared to hell, and I pull one out.
“You read poetry?” I ask, genuinely perplexed.
He shrugs, looking faintly defensive. “Sometimes. When my brain won’t shut up. It’s… quiet.” He takes the book out of my hand, flips the book open to a page, glances down, then snaps it shut again and shoves it back on the shelf. “Not that one,” he mutters.
I file that away in the mental filing cabinet for later.
We spend the morning not doing much of anything, which is apparently the point. He sprawls on the short sofa by the fire, his feet in my lap, flipping through a book. I pretend to read one of his English paperbacks, but I keep losing my place because every time he moves, my entire body screams at me.
Later, we go for a walk in the snow and he steals my beanie because he ‘forgot’ his own. The air is sharp and clean, he points out animal tracks and tiny prints disappearing into the trees. We end up throwing snow at each other like a pair of kids — he cheats, obviously. I end up with snow down my neck, and he laughs so hard he almost falls over.
Back at the cabin, we thaw out in front of the fire. He insists I take the chair closest to it, muttering something about ‘fragile British bones.’ I pretend to be offended, but I don’t move.
At some point in the afternoon, my brain stops buzzing quite so loudly. The constant low-grade panic that’s been humming under my skin for years quiets to something like... background noise. I catch myself just watching him, the way his face softens when he’s concentrating on something small — like pulling a loose thread on his sleeve — and the way he hums under his breath, off-key, to some Russian song I don’t know. He gets this tiny frown line between his eyebrows when he’s thinking about nothing in particular. It hits me then, as I’m washing two mugs in the tiny sink and he’s behind me, fiddling with the radio with some fuzzy Russian station crackling in and out.
I could do this.
Not just the sex, the whole thing. Waking up in the same bed, arguing over who burned the eggs, him stealing my clothes, calling me names and translating poems at me in that rough voice.
I could be... his?
“Hey,” he says behind me. His knuckles brush the back of my arm as he reaches over to turn the tap off because I’ve just been standing there watching the water run like an idiot. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere.” My voice is too quiet. I clear my throat. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t,” he says automatically. “Very dangerous.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “Come on. You’re hogging the sink.” We bump shoulders again, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. That’s what scares me. The natural things are what you miss when they’re gone.
He herds me around with a hand on the back of my neck, guiding me out of his way to reach for a towel. It’s stupid how good that feels.
I realise, with a kind of horrible clarity, that this is going to destroy me. The thought makes my vision blur for a second.You don’t have to think about it now,a traitor part of me whispers.You have today. Maybe tomorrow. Take it.
I swallow hard and nod at nothing.
Right. I can do that. I can be here, fully, just for today. I can let myself be happy for a handful of hours without trying to pre-grieve it into the ground. I turn around, leaning back against the counter, and watch him as he goes back to the radio, flicking through static again. He glances over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows raised. “What?” he asks.
“You look good in my shirt,” I say, surprising both of us.
He blinks, then smirks, slow and wolfish. “Yeah?” he says, tugging at the hem. “Maybe I’ll keep it as a souvenir.”
“Thief,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than I intend it to. His expression shifts, just for a second. Then he stands and takes a few slow steps toward me, forgetting the radio behind him. When he stops in front of me, he’s close enoughthat I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the small nick under his bottom lip, and the tiredness around his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head because the only thing my brain wants to offer is three words, and that is absolutely not allowed out of my mouth. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m just glad we came.”
He studies me for a long moment. His hand comes up slowly and grips my jaw in his fingers. “Me too.” I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. His mouth is on mine before I can even think to pull away — not that I want to. His lips are firm and demanding; it’s the kind of kiss that short-circuits your brain in five seconds flat. I groan into it, my hands slide up the hard planes of his chest, feeling the fabric of his T-shirt beneath my palms. His long blond hair brushes against my cheek as he angles his head, deepening the kiss, and I feel the stubble on his jaw scraping against mine.
Ari’s hands are everywhere, gripping my hips, dragging me closer, digging hard into the bruises he already left from the day before. I can feel the hard ridge of him against my thigh. My own cock is already half-hard, straining against my briefs, but I don’t rush. Neither does he. This isn’t about getting off fast. It’s about the way his breath hitches when I bite down on his lower lip, and the way his muscles tense when I touch him back.
I pull back just enough to breathe, and my lips brush his as I speak. “Fuck, someone’s impatient.” My voice is rough, and my body is already thrumming with the need to have him inside me again.
His grey eyes lock onto mine with that same predatory intensity that always makes my stomach flip. “You talk too much,” he growls. His hands slide down to my arse, and he squeezes hard before he lifts and turns me like I weigh nothing. My back hits the wall with a thud, and the impact knocks theair out of my lungs for a second. His mouth crashes back onto mine, and his tongue forces its way past my lips.
I moan into the kiss as he places me back down. My fingers tangle in his hair, messing up the perfection of it, but he doesn’t care; his hands are already working at my waistband. My joggers hit the floor a second later, followed by my boxers and T-shirt, and then his calloused palms are on my bare skin, gripping my thighs hard as he hoists me back up against the wall.
“Bed,” I manage to gasp out between kisses, “now.”
Ari doesn’t argue. He carries me the few steps to the bed like it’s nothing; his strength making me feel weightless. The mattress dips under our combined weight as he lays me down, his body covering mine, and pinning me to the bed.
