“You’ve stolen my shirt again.”
He looks down at himself, as if noticing clothing for the first time in his life. “Stolen is the wrong word, it was just there.”
“It was in my bag,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
Ari huffs a laugh through his nose and turns back to the stove. “Your British brain is very cute in the morning, detka.”
“Don’t start.”
“You started it,” he shoots back.
I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t help. He slides a mug across the counter toward me without looking. The coffee is aggressively strong, borderline violent. Exactly how I like it. And how I like my men too, apparently. He goes back to flipping whatever’s in the pan again, like it requires his full attention, and my existence doesn’t alter the orbit of his world.
Ari finally glances at me, just a flick of grey-blue that pins me in place. “Drink.”
I take a sip, and it’s hot enough to reset my nervous system. Bitter and perfect. My shoulders drop by a fraction. Ari sees it, but he doesn’t comment; he turns the stovetop off and plates up breakfast like he’s done it a hundred times.
I sit, and he sets a plate down in front of me, then takes the chair opposite. He sits with his legs spread under the table, relaxed in a way he never is on base, and starts eating like he’s been starving for days, again. I watch him chew, the way his throat moves when he swallows, and the way his eyelashes make shadows on his cheeks when he drops his gaze to his plate.
I’ve seen him in every other form — the soldier, the threat, the myth, the arsehole who smirks like he’s won before the game starts. I’ve seen the violence in him, I’ve seen how quickly he can go cold, and how easily he can become nothing but a weapon with a face.
But this version, I’ve decided, is my favourite.
Here, he’s just Arseny.
A man in joggers, eating eggs, wearing my shirt.My brain tries to do something dangerous with that thought, and I shove it away with the flat of my mind like it’s a weapon I’m not allowed to touch.
Ari looks up mid-bite. “What?” he says again.
“I didn’t say anything,” I reply, quickly.
He chews slowly, his gaze fixed on me as if he’s deciding whether to push. “You are loud,” he says. “In your head.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
He swallows. “That one is my favourite lie.”
I stab a piece of egg with my fork harder than necessary. “Shut up and eat.” His mouth twitches, and he moves his foot forward under the table until it bumps mine. It’s a soft, deliberate press, toe to ankle — a small, stupid, tiny touch.
I look up, caught, and Ari’s eyes are on me with the faintest glint of satisfaction. He doesn’t smirk because he doesn’t need to. He’s already won. “You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
“I enjoy many things,” he says smoothly. “Your suffering is one.”
“Charming.”
“I’m very charming,” he agrees, completely unbothered. I huff a laugh and take another sip of coffee to hide it. Across the table, Ari watches me like he’s memorising every reaction, every crack in my restraint, as if he’s collecting them.
He finishes eating, setting his fork down, and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head like he’s trying to kill me on purpose — that damn shirt lifts again. He catches my stare, and his smile turns lazy and dangerous. “Eat,” he says.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He tilts his head. “You like it when I do.” I almost choke on absolutely nothing. Ari laughs, like my embarrassment is a hobby he’s committed to long-term, and I throw a crust of toast at him. It hits his shoulder and drops to the floor. He looks down at it, then back at me. “Violence,” he says, deadpan. “In my own home.”
It’s absurd how much I want to grin. It’s worse how much I want to kiss him. Ari stands, collects the plates, and starts rinsing them at the sink. His sleeves are pushed up; his damp hair dripping onto the back of my shirt, his forearms working as he scrubs. The domesticity of it makes my brain short-circuit all over again.
I get up and drift behind him like a magnet. The cabin is warm now. The fire is down to a steady crackle, and outside the window, the snow sits heavy on the trees. It feels like the world has been muffled. Like we’re the only two people alive in the world. Ari glances back at me over his shoulder, and I’m close enough that his breath hits my cheek. “Go away,” he says.
“No.”
