Page 69 of Hold the Line

The smoke detector chooses that exact moment to lose its mind. The piercing, high-pitched shriek rips through the house like a fire alarm in hell. I jump so hard I nearly drop the entire pot. Pain lances through my ribs and I let out another loud yelp, grabbing the counter with my good hand as the world spins for a second.

“No no no no— fuck— stop— I didn’t even burn anything that bad!” I shout at the ceiling, waving a dish towel frantically with my one working hand like that’s going to help. The smoke detector keeps screaming, loud and relentless, echoing off every surface. My heart is hammering. I’m half-convinced Viktor’s fancy smart house is about to call the fire department on me.

I’m still waving the towel like an idiot when the front door opens. I freeze mid-fan, towel still raised like a white flag, and turn toward the sound.

Viktor is standing in the doorway. He’s in his travel clothes, dark coat dusted with snow, duffel bag dropped by his feet. His eyes take in the entire disaster in one slow, heavy sweep: me standing there like a guilty child, the blaring smoke alarm, the chaotic state of his once-pristine kitchen, and the black smoke curling up from the ruined pot behind me.

I open my mouth to explain — or apologize, or make a joke, anything — but nothing comes out.

Viktor closes the door behind him with a quiet click. Without a word he grabs one of the kitchen chairs, drags it over, climbs up on it with that effortless grace that shouldn’t be possible for a man his size, and reaches up to unscrew the smoke alarm. He pops the batteries out with two fingers and the piercing wail finally cuts off, leaving ringing silence in its wake.

He steps down, puts the chair back, turns off the stove with a flick of his wrist, and moves the ruined pot to the sink like it personally insulted him. Then he turns to me.

Big hands cup my face and he kisses me. Hard at first, like he’s been holding back for days, then softer, deeper, like he’s pouring every mile of distance between us into it. I completely deflate. All the panic, the pain, the spiraling paranoia, the boredom — it all melts right out of me as I lean into him, good hand fisting in his shirt, a soft, relieved sound escaping against his mouth.

He tastes like airplane coffee and home.

Viktor breaks the kiss first, just enough to rest his forehead against mine, thumbs brushing slow and gentle over my cheeks like he’s memorizing every inch of my face after days apart. His eyes are soft in that rare way he only ever gets with me, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I take it you don’t like my kitchen?” he teases.

I pout immediately, dramatic and full, the relief from seeing him warring with the embarrassment of the absolute disaster I’ve made. “It’s not that I don’t like it! It’s that nothing in this stupid house is made for one-handed people! I only have one working hand, Vik! One! The pot was too heavy, the grater kept slipping, the stupid pasta box fought me, and the sauce—don’t even get me started on the sauce, it betrayed me, okay? I was trying to make mac and cheese because I was spiraling and bored and missing you and the team and the ice and everything, and then the smoke detector decided I was trying to burn the place down like some kind of amateur arsonist—”

Viktor listens with that small, fond smirk on his face the whole time, saying nothing, just letting me ramble. His hands stay on my face for a moment longer before he gently guides me backward toward one of the kitchen chairs, careful of my ribs, easing me down like I’m made of glass. I keep talking even as I sit, gesturing wildly with my good hand while he crouches in front of me, listening like every dramatic complaint is the most important thing in the world.

“—and I watched like five YouTube videos but they all had two hands and no broken ribs and I swear the smoke detector has it out for me personally—”

He huffs a quiet laugh, thumbs still stroking my cheeks, and presses another soft kiss to my forehead.

“Alright, soroka,” Viktor says, that small smirk still playing on his lips as he straightens up. “I’ll make you mac and cheese. No need to vandalize my house.”

I huff, crossing my arms as best I can with one wrist braced, trying to look offended even though the relief of having him here is making my whole body feel lighter. “I wasn’t vandalizing. I was attempting. There’s a difference.”

He chuckles low, the sound warm and familiar, and presses one more quick kiss to my forehead before turning toward the mess I created. I stay seated like he silently ordered, watching him move around the kitchen with that effortless efficiency that always makes my chest do stupid things. He cleans as he cooks — wiping counters, tossing the ruined pot into the sink, sweeping up scattered pasta with one hand while the other fills a fresh pot with water. It’s ridiculous how graceful he is even doing something as mundane as this. The way his shoulders move under his shirt, the quiet focus in his eyes, the little Russian mutter under his breath when he finds another cheese shred on the floor.

I smile, soft and dopey, chin resting on my good hand as I watch him. Yeah… there’s no way this man would actually murder someone. The thought feels silly now, sitting here in his kitchen while he’s making me comfort food after flying halfway across the world. Viktor is intense, sure. Protective to a fault. But he’s mine. The guy who puts my tongue ring back in after every game and holds me like I’m the only thing that matters. The smile I saw on New Year’s was probably just… relief or something. Stress. Not whatever paranoid shit my pain-med brain cooked up.

He glances over his shoulder at me, catching me staring, and his smirk deepens just a fraction. “You going to keep watching me like that or are you going to tell me how you managed to set off the smoke detector with mac and cheese?”

I grin, the last of the spiral fading under the warmth of his presence. “It was the sauce’s fault. Traitorous dairy product.”

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh and keeps working, the kitchen slowly filling with the much better smell of actual cooking instead of burnt regret.

It is the beginning of March and the air in the locker room feels electric, the way it always does before a big rematch. The Chicago Wolves are in town tonight and the Reapers are hungry for blood after the last series. Two months. Two long, careful months of watching Cole heal — making sure he didn’t push too hard, making sure he took his meds, making sure he stayed where I could see him. He tried to convince me more than once to let him go back to his own apartment. I shut that down every time. Paranoid? Maybe. But after what happened, after seeing him in that hospital bed, I am not letting him out of my sight any more than necessary. He is mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.

Right now the locker room is loud with the usual pre-game energy — pads clacking, sticks tapping, guys chirping and laughing. I stand in front of Cole, close enough that our knees brush, and carefully take out his tongue piercing. My fingers are gentle, the familiar ritual we have fallen into. He tilts his head back for me automatically, those golden-brown eyes staring up at me like I hung the moon and every star besides. Lovestruck. Completely gone. It never fails to make something warm and possessive curl low in my chest.

But then his hand sneaks under the hem of my jersey, fingers brushing warm against my skin, tracing the ridges of muscle like he has every right to touch. Which he does. But not right now.

“Cole,” I murmur in warning. My thumb brushes his bottom lip as I finish removing the barbell and slip it into the small case in my stall. “We have a game. Behave.”

He doesn’t behave. Of course he doesn’t. His fingers keep exploring, dipping just under the waistband of my compression shorts, teasing. Those eyes stay locked on mine, bright and mischievous and full of heat. “Missed this,” he whispers. “Missed touching you. Missed you touching me. Two months is too long, big guy.”

I catch his wandering hand with mine, squeezing once in warning even as my body reacts to him the way it always does — heat pooling low, my shoulders stiffening with the effort not to drag him somewhere private. “Later,” I promise. “After we win. Then I will remind you exactly why you should not tease me before going on the ice.”

Cole’s grin turns wicked, but he lets me guide his hand away, still staring up at me like I am the only thing in the entire arena that matters. The rest of the team is moving around us — Elias chirping at Damian, Shane muttering to his mask, the rookies looking nervous about facing the Wolves again — but all I can focus on is the man in front of me, back where he belongs.

“Nervous for your first game in two months, Hollywood?” Elias teases, skating up beside us with that feral grin on his face, curls already messy under his helmet.