Chapter 6 #2
My screen goes dark again, and I slip the phone into my pocket, forcing my gaze back to the blur of headlights ahead. Beside me, Artyom doesn’t notice—or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
When we stop outside my building, I’m already reaching for the handle, ready to escape whatever this silence has turned into. But then I hear the door on his side open too, and a second later, he’s following me inside.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask, turning halfway up the stairs.
“I need your questionnaire,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“It’s not due today.”
“It is now.”
I sigh, climbing the last few steps. Inside, the apartment feels smaller with him in it. He closes the door behind him, not slamming it, just quietly shutting the rest of the world out. I drop my bag on the couch and cross my arms.
“Make yourself at home,” I mutter.
He looks around slowly, his gaze moving over the couch, the counter, the books stacked near the window, until it settles on the table where the papers are still spread out.
He walks toward them with the calm certainty of someone who already knew they would be there, then reaches out and flips through them as if confirming what he expected to find.
“You didn’t finish,” he says and sits on the couch.
“I didn’t have time.”
“You had all night.”
“I also have a job,” I snap.
He looks at me, and something in his gaze softens just a fraction. “You don’t need to think about that anymore.”
“Because you fixed it for me?” I shoot back. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”
He doesn’t take the bait. He just pulls out a chair and sits, unfolding the papers with precise fingers. “Sit down, Kira.”
I roll my eyes but grab a glass from the counter, filling it halfway with the cheap whiskey I keep for nights when the world feels too heavy. I pour him one too, slide it across the table without asking.
He takes it, nods once in thanks, then gestures to the chair across from him. “Now sit.”
I drop into the seat, pulling my hair loose from its tie, too drained to argue. The heat from the drink burns on the way down. He watches me for a moment, then reaches for his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat,” he says without looking up.
The line of his jaw is set, his voice calm but final. I don’t bother arguing. A few minutes later, he sets the phone down. “It’ll be here in twenty.”
I mutter something under my breath, but he ignores it and picks up the papers again. “Let’s finish.”
“Honestly, I’m not exactly in the mood for a quiz.”
“Then fake it,” he says, tone dry. “It’s good practice.”
I glare at him across the table, but he only looks more relaxed, rolling his glass between his fingers. The whiskey glows amber in the lamplight, catching on the faint scar near his wrist.
I glare at him across the table, but he’s already scanning the next line on the sheet in front of him, the edge of his cuff brushing the paper.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the faint sound of wind hitting the balcony door.
He’s sitting too comfortably—ankle resting over his knee, pen balanced between his fingers like he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Question twenty-three,” he says without looking up. “Favorite movie.”
I sigh, leaning back in my seat. “You really want to know?”
“I have to.”
“The Notebook.”
That finally earns my favorite look from him—a slow lift of one eyebrow. “Predictable.”
“Excuse me for having feelings,” I mutter.
He makes a small sound, halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Try harder,” he says, flipping to the next page. “First kiss.”
I shift, folding my arms. “What about it?”
“Where.”
“In a car,” I say. “Outside of a party. I was sixteen. It was awkward.”
His gaze lifts then, steady, curious in a way that makes my skin warm. “Who?”
“None of your business.”
He smiles faintly. “It is now.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Unbelievable.”
He leans back, still holding my gaze, pen tapping lightly against the page. The corners of his mouth curve just enough to make it worse. “Your turn.”
I pick up the paper he’s already filled out. “Favorite food: steak. Favorite color: gray. First kiss…” I trail off. “You didn’t write a name.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Liar.”
He doesn’t deny it. I reach for the next page just to have something to do with my hands, but he’s still watching, waiting, and when I finally look up again, his expression hasn’t changed.
A knock at the door breaks the quiet. He stands before I can move, opens it to the delivery guy, and sets the bag on the counter. The smell of Thai food fills the room, warm and heavy.
He nods toward it. “Eat.”
“I told you, I’m not—”
“You are.”
I roll my eyes but grab a bite anyway. Somewhere between chewing and glaring at him, I realize the tension’s shifted—not gone, just quieter, deeper, the kind that fills the air between two people who have run out of excuses to pretend they don’t notice each other.
“What do you notice first about someone?” I read aloud.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Lips. Yours flush when you’re angry.”
I freeze for a second, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw something. “You’ve been staring at me that much?”
“Enough to notice.”
I look back down at the paper before he can see what that does to me. “Next question. What’s your biggest weakness?”
He doesn’t look away. “You tell me.”
My throat goes dry. “That’s not how this works.”
“It’s an answer.”
I force a laugh. “Fine. Mine’s chocolate.”
“Liar,” he says softly.
I look up. “What?”
His voice drops even lower. “You’re lying because you’re uncomfortable.”
Something in me tightens, a slow pull low in my stomach that I can’t ignore.
My chest feels too small, my skin too aware of itself.
He watches me like he’s already figured out what I’m trying to hide, and it makes my pulse stumble, my breath come shallow, like I’m waiting for him to say something I’m not ready to hear.
He sets the paper down and leans forward, close enough that I can feel the heat of him. “You want to know what my weakness is?”
“No,” I whisper, though I don’t move away.
“Curiosity,” he says. “It gets me into trouble.”
He’s close enough that his breath brushes my skin when he speaks, and my whole body feels like it’s waiting for something to happen.
“Artyom,” I say quietly, but it comes out softer than I mean it to.
He studies my face like he’s memorizing it, then his hand lifts, just slightly, fingertips brushing my cheek. The touch is light, barely there, but it feels like fire. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he says, voice rougher now.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what would happen if I touched you again.”
The words land between us, dark and electric. I swallow hard. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and my whole body reacts before my mind can catch up.
My heartbeat trips, hard and uneven, the sound of it filling my ears.
Every part of me feels drawn to him, like something inside knows what’s coming and doesn’t want to stop it.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, close enough that I forget how to breathe.
“Let me guess, your mother told you women fall for that look,” I blurt, the words tumbling out before I can stop them, my laugh too quick, too nervous to sound right.
He goes still. The change is instant. His hand drops, his expression hardens, and the warmth in his eyes disappears like it was never there.
I blink, confused. “What?”
He stands, pushing the chair back quietly. “We’re done for tonight.”
“Artyom—”
He doesn’t look at me. “Pack your things. We leave tomorrow afternoon.”
He pulls away, and something in my chest sinks fast, sharp, like a drop I didn’t see coming. I want to take the words back, to fix whatever I just broke, but I can’t even tell which part of it cut too deep.
He walks to the door, and I follow, not sure what I’m trying to fix. “I didn’t mean—”
He stops at the threshold and finally turns to me. His face is calm again, but there’s distance in it, a wall I hadn’t seen before. “Get some sleep, Kira.”
Then he’s gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
I stand there for a long time, staring at the door he just walked through, the quiet stretching around me until it feels like the room itself is holding its breath.
His touch is still on my skin, faint but impossible to forget.
I tell myself I hate him, that I needed him to leave before I do something stupid, before I forgot who I am.
But the lie sits heavy in my chest, and I already know it won’t hold because tomorrow I’ll see him again. Tomorrow, we leave for Italy.