Chapter 13 #3
This was little space for me—not baby talk or bottles or diapers, but this soft place where I could be young and protected. Where someone else made the decisions and kept the monsters away. Where fairy tales were real and happy endings were possible and Daddy's voice could chase away any nightmare.
"Look," I said, pointing at an illustration of a tower wrapped in roses. "She painted faces in the thorns. See? Little scary faces to show they're dangerous."
"You're right," Dmitry said, and the pride in his voice at my observation made warmth bloom in my chest. "The artist hid secrets in every picture. Should we find them all?"
I nodded enthusiastically, turning pages carefully to study each illustration.
Dmitry never rushed me, never acted like my observations were childish, just asked questions that made me think deeper, look closer.
Bear occasionally lifted his head to check on us, then went back to sleeping, and the domestic perfection of it all made my throat tight.
"Why are you crying, baby?" Dmitry asked, thumb catching a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
"Happy," I managed, turning in his arms to bury my face in his chest. "Just really, really happy."
He held me while I cried those good tears, the ones that came when your body didn't know how to hold so much joy. His hand rubbed my back in slow circles, and he hummed something that might have been a Russian lullaby, and I felt safer than I'd ever felt in my entire life.
This was what little space really meant—not pretending to be a child, but allowing the wounded child I'd been to finally feel protected.
To have the safety and care that had been stolen by foster homes and streets and survival.
Dmitry understood that without me having to explain it, provided it without making me ask.
"Better?" he asked when my tears stopped.
I nodded against his chest, then pulled back to look at him.
In the soft light of our fort, with fairy tales spread around us and Bear snoring peacefully, he looked like a prince from one of the stories.
My prince, who built me forts and read me stories and called me his little girl like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Read more?" I asked, settling back against his chest.
"Always," he promised, picking up where we'd left off, his voice weaving magic in our blanket cave while the city hummed its nighttime song outside.
The doorbell broke through our fairy tale world, and Dmitry's stomach growled in response, making me giggle against his chest.
"Dinner," he said, carefully extracting himself from the fort. "Don't move."
Like I would leave our perfect blanket cave.
I curled into the warm spot he'd left, breathing in his lingering scent while Bear lifted his head hopefully at the mention of food.
Through the blanket walls, I could hear Dmitry talking to the delivery guy, the rustle of bags, the domestic sounds of plates and silverware.
He returned with everything balanced on a tray—white takeout boxes, real plates because he insisted we eat off actual dishes, chopsticks and forks, and a small bowl of water for Bear.
The logistics of getting it all into the fort made us both laugh, Dmitry eventually sliding the tray in while I pulled from the other side.
"Teamwork," I said proudly, and he kissed my forehead like I'd accomplished something monumental.
We unpacked the boxes together—lo mein, dumplings, orange chicken, spring rolls, more food than two people could possibly eat. But abundance was still new to me, and I loved the weight of too much, the promise that there would be leftovers tomorrow, that we wouldn't run out.
Dmitry pulled me back against his chest, and without discussing it, he started feeding me bites between his own.
His chopsticks would capture a piece of orange chicken, and he'd bring it to my lips with the same care he'd shown reading to me.
It felt tender—like he wanted to take care of me in every small way.
"Bear needs a dumpling," I announced, watching our dog track every movement of food with laser focus.
"Bear's had plenty of treats today," Dmitry said, but he was already tearing off a small piece.
I took it from his fingers and offered it to Bear, who took it with surprising gentleness before wagging so hard his whole body moved. "He's such a good boy. The best boy. Aren't you, Bear? Yes, you are."
"You're going to spoil him," Dmitry warned, but his voice was warm with affection.
"Good," I said decisively. "He deserves to be spoiled. We all do."
The simple declaration hung in the fort's soft air. We all deserved to be spoiled—Bear, me, even Dmitry with his scars and his careful control. Here in our blanket cave, we could allow ourselves that luxury.
I reached for the fairy tale book again, needing to share my discoveries.
"Look at this one," I said, opening to an illustration of an underwater palace.
"See how she drew the water? It's not just blue—there's purple and green and even pink in the shadows.
And look, tiny fish hidden in the seaweed patterns. "
Dmitry leaned in to look closer, his chin resting on my shoulder. "How did you spot those? They're barely visible."
"I've always looked for hidden things in pictures," I admitted, tracing the tiny details with my finger. "In foster homes, when things got bad, I'd stare at book illustrations and find all the secrets. It was like . . . like the artist left them there just for me to find."
His arms tightened around me, but he didn't offer empty sympathy. Instead, he asked, "What other secrets did this artist hide?"
We went through the book page by page, me pointing out hidden faces in tree bark, secret doors in castle walls, tiny animals camouflaged in dress patterns.
Dmitry asked questions that made me think deeper—why did the artist choose to hide that particular detail?
What did it mean for the story? His engagement was genuine, treating my observations like they mattered, like I wasn't just a traumatized girl being indulged but someone whose perspective was valuable.
"This one's my favorite," I said, showing him an illustration of a girl surrounded by stars. "See how each star has a different expression? Happy, sad, surprised, angry. Like they're all different souls watching over her."
"Maybe they are," Dmitry said thoughtfully. "Maybe everyone who ever loved her became a star, and now they keep her safe even when she can't see them."
The poetry of it, from this man who broke bones for a living, made my chest ache with something too big for words.
A yawn escaped before I could stop it, my body heavy with food and safety and the emotional weight of being so thoroughly cared for. The clock on his phone showed 9:47, not really late but my body didn't care about actual time.
"Almost bedtime for little girls," Dmitry said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
"Not tired," I protested, even as another yawn betrayed me.
"Hmm," he said, clearly not buying it. "Well, when you do get tired—which you're definitely not right now—we should probably get you ready for bed."
I wanted to argue, to insist we could stay in our fort forever, but my eyelids were getting heavy.
The combination of our big day, the food, the warmth of Dmitry's arms, and the safety of little space had left me drowsy in the best way.
Not the exhausted collapse I'd known on the streets, but the gentle tiredness that came from being happy and full and loved.
"Five more minutes?" I bargained, curling deeper into his chest.
"Five more minutes," he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
But five minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, and when I started listing sideways, Dmitry made the executive decision.
"Come on, baby girl. Time for teeth brushing and bed."
I whined but let him help me to my feet, swaying slightly as blood rushed back to my legs.
The fort looked even more magical from the outside, glowing softly in the dark apartment.
Bear had fallen completely asleep, sprawled across the fairy tale book with his tongue poking out slightly, snoring in that whistling way that meant he was deeply unconscious.
"We should clean up," I said, looking at the takeout boxes and plates.
"Tomorrow," Dmitry said, hands on my waist to steady me. "We'll leave the fort up too. Maybe add more blankets, make it even better."
"Tomorrow?" The casual assumption that there would be a tomorrow, that we'd improve on what we'd built rather than tear it down, made my throat tight.
"Tomorrow," he confirmed. "And the day after that, and the day after that. We can have a fort whenever you want one, little one. It doesn't have to be special occasion."
The promise of continuity—of forts and fairy tales and Chinese food whenever I needed them—was almost too much to process.
I'd spent so long in survival mode, never planning beyond the next meal or safe place to sleep.
The idea that I could want something as frivolous as a blanket fort and have it, not just once but whenever, scrambled my understanding of how life worked.
"You mean it?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded but needing the confirmation.
"I mean it," he said simply. "This is your home now, Eva. Our home. Forts included."
I stood there in my pajamas, swaying slightly with exhaustion, looking at this man who'd built me a fort and read me stories and fed me Chinese food like it was communion.
This man who saw me in little space and met me there without judgment, who promised tomorrow like he had the right to guarantee futures.
This was normal for other people. This assumption of safety, of continuity, of someone caring whether you ate dinner or had a soft place to sleep.
For me, it was a miracle wrapped in string lights and blankets, proof that sometimes broken people could build something beautiful from their sharp edges.
"Okay," I whispered, taking his offered hand. "Bedtime."