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Dmitri felt suddenly very alone, but being in Raphael’s bed helped. He knew he was going to have to talk about Paxton. He’d need to make an appointment with his therapist, because it wasn’t something he could just brush off. He was braver than he’d been a year ago, and he was stronger. But he was also still in shock.
Dmitri had half-dozed by the time Raphael returned, and he was holding a tote-bag full of something that had clearly not come from a delivery place.
“I called Luca,” Raphael said. He tipped the bag over to reveal a picnic carefully separated into small plastic containers Dmitri recognized from Wilder’s kitchen. “They sent their love.”
Dmitri’s stomach twisted again, because he was going to have to face the people he cared about and put on a brave face only because the last thing he wanted was to talk it through. He loved them, but there were pieces of himself he wanted to keep hidden away from the public eye, and what happened with Paxton wasn’t something he wanted to relive over and over.
“I can see you panicking,” Raphael said as he pulled the lid off what looked like roasted zucchini and yellow squash. He put some in his mouth and chewed before speaking again. “I won’t ask you to talk to me about it.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Dmitri admitted. The aching truth of his statement hurt because he knew if he could just find the words, it might not feel like someone was sitting on his chest every now and again. “I feel like an idiot. I should have listened to everyone.”
“Did someone tell you Paxton has done something like that before?” Raphael asked, his shoulders going tense.
Dmitri shook his head. “No, but they all seemed kind of wary when I said he and were getting to know each other.” He chose the container with fruit, and he bit into a very ripe strawberry. “I knew it too. He…God. He wasn’t nice. He was flirty, and he was charming, but he made these comments about Owen that just sounded off, and I…” He shook his head and sighed. “If I had listened, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. I mean, I have to take responsibility for my part, right?”
“No.” Raphael’s sharp word halted his own, and Dmitri looked over at him. “The responsibility is entirely his. He is a grown adult, and he knew what he was doing. He assaulted you.”
Dmitri swallowed past a lump in his throat. He knew it—he knew those words and what they meant and how they shouldn’t be attached to shame, but his brain didn’t want to listen. “I just…” He stopped when his voice cracked.
“You are allowed to feel how you feel,” Raphael said, his voice softening. “But I want you to feel it right here”—he leaned forward to press a finger to the center of Dmitri’s chest—“that it will never be your fault.”
Dmitri didn’t want to cry. He would—eventually. But right now, he just wanted to let himself feel it in small bits and tiny pieces. So, he swallowed, and he nodded, and then he finished off the container of ripe fruit before setting it back in the bag.
“I promised Roman I would text him and let him know if I found you,” Raphael said as he cleaned up. Most of the food went untouched, and he tucked it back into the tote bag before dropping it off the side of the bed. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yes,” Dmitri said, half his word interrupted by a yawn. He flushed a little, covering his mouth as he turned his face away.
Using his hands to scoot closer to Dmitri, Raphael laid tentative fingers at his waist. “I think you should sleep.”
Dmitri’s body ached with exhaustion, and he wanted to fight it, but it was impossible with Raphael’s warmth pressed against him. “Tell him I’ll be in tomorrow. And um. And tell him thanks.”
Raphael made a soft noise, but Dmitri appreciated that he didn’t argue. He said something else, but it was too soft for Dmitri to hear, and he was too tired to ask him to repeat it. It was easier to sink into the gripping darkness that had been tugging at his corners since he woke up on the sofa. He didn’t feel good, but he felt safe, and it was that one thing that allowed him to fully close his eyes and drift off.
20
Dmitri hatedthe feeling of trepidation hovering over him as he pulled up next to Roman’s truck, but he appreciated there was no one else there. Or, at least, he hoped. He could take Roman’s gentle stoicism, but he wasn’t sure he had the strength for Aksel’s brand of care that morning.
Tucking his hat over his head, he glanced up at the fat clouds, heavy and dark with snow, and he grabbed his scarf for good measure as he stepped out and locked up. The walk to the station door was only a few feet, but it felt like a hundred miles, and he took several breaths before moving inside.
Roman was there, seated in his wheelchair at the coffee station, and he looked over his shoulder at Dmitri for just a few seconds too long. After a beat, he cleared his throat and offered out a mug, but Dmitri shook his head. In spite of his broken sleep in Raphael’s bed, he was too jittery and anxious, and he had only been able to stomach herbal tea that morning.
“Adam does this thing where he over-compensates with food. I think deep down, he is his bubbe,” Roman said with a half grin as he indicated a spread of baked goods on the flyer counter. “She used to do that when we were kids. When Fitz finally got let out of the hospital, the school cafeteria smelled like one giant rugelach for months.”
Dmitri let himself smile as he walked over and peered down at the array of pastries—most of them unfamiliar, but some old favorites. “I take it everyone knows?”
Roman sighed. “You know how people are, but it’ll blow over in a bit.”
Dmitri wasn’t so sure, but he had to admit it was nice being on the better side of the gossip. He’d never entirely been a villain, but even the careful suspicion was a weight he hadn’t wanted to bear. This was just as heavy, but it wasn’t as suffocating.
“Are you hungry?”
Dmitri shook his head, then started the kettle just for something to do. “Um. You have work for me, right?”
“I have several things that need to get done. About a thousand forms to file, but if you’d rather be outside, the fire pit…”
“No,” Dmitri said without thinking, and the sharpness of his voice startled him. He cleared his throat and looked away so Roman wouldn’t see the heat in his cheeks. “Sorry. Um, paperwork is fine.”
“I won’t ask you to tell me details,” Roman said after a moment of silence. He put his tumbler between his legs, then wheeled himself back to his desk. “That’s none of my business, but if he did something else to you that the cops should know about…”
