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She shoved the thought aside before it could take hold.
Dammit, Marine. I was fine until you came along.
The kitchen was exactly what the rest of the house promised — small, dated, and crowded. A table shoved beneath the window, the glass fogged opaque. Bowls and plates filled every inch of space. Steam rose from a pot on the stove. A loaf of dark bread sat already cut, thick slices stacked like bricks on the table.
The cyclamen was still wrong somehow, shoved between several potted herbs on the windowsill.
“Sit, sit,” Galina instructed, pointing a wooden spoon at a chair facing inward to the kitchen.
She sat.
Immediately, a glass appeared in front of her.
Clear liquid. No label needed.
Vodka.
Galina poured another for herself, then lifted her glass, waiting.
The smell hit Felicity before she could stop it — sharp, clean, almost sterile. It turned her stomach in a way that was instant and absolute, something tightening low and hard in her gut.
Her fingers curled against her thigh. “No,” she said. “I—”
Galina’s eyes flicked to her face.
The revulsion must have been written there, plain as anything.
For a beat, neither of them moved.
Then, without a word, Galina reached across the table, took both glasses, and emptied them into the sink. “I’ll make tea.”
The kettle was on before Felicity could answer. She exhaled slowly, something in her chest loosening despite herself. When the aromatic mint tea was placed before her, she had herself under control. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Galina smiled, the gentle curve of her mouth softened the lines of her face. “Nichevo.”
It was more than nothing, but Felicity wasn’t about to give a reason, so she sipped her tea while Galina busied herself at the stove. The woman’s quiet respect for her privacy didn’t go unnoticed.
Even the dogs had settled, one pressing against her foot, its head resting across the bridge — heavy, yet … not unwelcome.
The platter of bread was placed on the table. “Let’s eat,” Galina said, setting a bowl in front of her. “You’re too thin.”
Felicity huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, then looked down. The soup was a deep, impossible red. A dollop of sour cream melted into pale ribbons across the surface. It smelled delicious.
Galina crossed herself quickly, almost absent-mindedly. “Enjoy.”
Felicity picked up her spoon and stirred in the cream. The first taste — so rich and tangy — did more than slide down with ease. It was … familiar.
There was something so … right about being here.
In this kitchen, with this woman.
A woman who kept at her despite her reservations.
Like the Marine.
Would opening herself up to accepting friendship be so bad?
The next mouthful caught halfway down. She set her spoon aside.
