Page 83 of Anton

“Really?” I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth.

“Yes. It’s a movie. I’ll survive.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I laugh and press play. As the movie continues, he gets drawn in, shaking his head whenever one of the characters does something stupid and muttering under his breath in Russian. When the heroine runs into the rain with tears streaming down her face, the hero chasing after her, he scoffs.

“How do you watch this?”

I glance at him, offended on behalf of the movie. “Because it’s beautiful.”

His mouth barely moves. “Yeah, that’s not what I would call it.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Pathetic.” There’s no hesitation in the answer, and that tells me more about him than any romantic confession ever could.

I’m not even sure how to respond. I’m sorry? I wish someone had shown you how amazing love can be?

And I know no matter what I say, he’ll just tell me I’m wrong. But at the end of the day, he’s the one who showed up with gifts, so I already won.

We keep watching—or at least I try to, but every time he shifts, the heat of his body keeps pulling my attention away from the screen. And every time I take a bite of ice cream, I can feel his gaze drifting back to me.

I eat another spoonful, sneaking a glance at him. “If you want, I can just turn it off.”

“I’m watching.”

“You’re watching me.”

“I can do both.” His lips pull up at the corner as he reaches over to brush my hair away from my forehead.

My heart gives a small kick, and I turn back to the television before he can read too much from my expression. His arm stretches along the back of the sofa behind me, not touching at first, but close enough that my body registers every bit of him. I keep my eyes on the screen, even though I have no idea what the heroine is saying anymore because his fingertips trace along my shoulder a second later, sending a shiver across my skin.

I finish my ice cream and pretend I’m not melting into the couch, while Anton’s bowl stays almost completely full. He takes mine from me, places both bowls on the coffee table, and then pulls me against his side until my cheek rests against his chest and his palm curves at my waist. The movie keeps playing, but all I know is the feeling of him holding me and the slow sweep of his thumb against my side. My eyes grow heavy, and I try to fight it because I don’t want to waste these moments.

“Sleep.” His mouth touches the top of my head. “I’ve got you.”

A quiet groan slips from me as I burrow closer. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Because you’re here, and I’m afraid once I close my eyes, you’ll walk out the door.

The words sit on my tongue, but I can’t make myself say them. Instead, I tilt my head back enough to look at him. His face is close, his expression unreadable, except his eyes aren’t empty. They’re filled with a maddening intensity.

“It’s okay.” His fingers brush along my waist. “Close your eyes. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

My hand lifts to his face, fingertips tracing the hard line of his jaw. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For all of it.” My fingers glide across his cheek. “For staying.”

Anton doesn’t answer with words, but as I close my eyes and press my cheek into his chest, his hold on me tightens and he doesn’t let go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THORA