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Roman has Alec in a chokehold when I enter Sergei’s penthouse. The two raise their brows at me before they break the fight. The duo’s idiotic antics don’t even surprise me anymore.

“Hi, dollface.” Roman chimes, and before he could say another word, I see a ladle fly through the air and smack him square in the back.

Sergei is leaning against the marble counter; his gaze glaring holes in Roman’s head.

“The fuck, mate?”

“She’s not your dollface.” Sergei growls, dark shadows pooling beneath his eyes as if he couldn’t sleep last night.

His hair is an unruly mess, like it’s been dragged through his fingers one too many times. He looks restless, almost on edge.

Sadness and despair hit me at once when I woke up. Sergei was gone.

The bed was empty, and so was my flat. Amara had left without a word.

And after a month of ‘good morning’ notes from Sergei, the silence today felt like something in my chest had splintered, disappointment felt too small a word for it.

There was no note on my nightstand, just his scent lingering on my pillow.

While I was taking a shower, I realised how deeply Sergei had rooted himself in me, threading through every waking thought, every breath, every moment I tried to call my own.

Transcending into a world that was peaceful—too peaceful—terrified me, because dreams like this never last, they are going to shatter.

And I’m not ready for it.

I decided to skip the morning lecture when I couldn’t find Sergei in the campus and came here looking for him.

And here is he.

Looking haunted but still hauntingly beautiful.

“When did you leave?”

“Missing school, Elara?” We speak at the same time.

“So are you.” I answer, my steps reducing the distance between us.

He turns away when I extend my hand to cup his face. I stand in front of him, trying to hide the hurt his rejection just caused me.

“Sergei.” I try.

His separation anxiety is impossible to miss whenever I tell him I’m leaving. He barely manages to mask the emotions that flicker across his face, too many at once, too raw, too haunting.

And while I’m desperate to know, I’m hesitant to ask.

Because to take from him, I’d have to give something in return—a piece of myself. And I’m not ready to offer the uglier parts of my life to something so beautiful.

“Sergei?”

Silence.

“Are you angry with me?” I peer down, looking at my feet.

“I don’t know, Elara. You tell me.” He mumbles, voice low. “You leave me even when I beg you not to.” His tone is stripped of emotions. “Is this how it’s going to be, Elara?”

The way he says my name—devoid of affection—splinters something in my chest. I was so consumed by my own feelings; I never stopped to consider his. Not once.

Maybe he isn’t going to leave me.